The Hidden Journal

Light doesn’t speak in sentences.
It speaks in presence.
In the way it touches what I thought was lost,
and reminds me nothing ever really disappears —
it just changes form.

───

I used to chase brightness
like something outside of me.
Now I see it for what it is —
a language,
ancient and tender,
written across everything that still wants me to stay.

───

It says come back through morning windows.
It says breathe through the way it softens around me at dusk.
It says you’re safe now
without a single word.

───

The language of light isn’t loud.
It hums quietly through forgiveness.
It writes poems on the walls of every healed moment.
It reminds me that peace isn’t something I find —
it’s something I understand.

───

Sometimes I speak back to it —
not in words,
but in the way I open.
And that’s enough for the conversation to go on.

───

— Desiree