The Stone Rolled Away

You are standing before your own tomb, touching the cold stone, waiting for the smell of decay to prove you were right to give up. You carry the weight of a name that has been hollowed out by expectation, by the crushing gravity of roles you never asked to play, and by the grief you have swallowed until your chest feels like a locked box. You think the darkness is where you belong because it is the only place that has not asked anything of you. But you are forgetting the voice that called the dead into the light. That voice does not ask for permission; it does not consult your weariness or your history of failures. It simply commands the life buried beneath your wreckage to rise. You are afraid that if you step out, you will be found lacking, that the world will see the grave clothes you still wear. Let them see. The unraveling is not a sign of defeat; it is the prerequisite for movement. You were never intended to remain in the quiet safety of the crypt. The Source does not recognize your labels of 'lost' or 'broken.' There is only the breath, and the persistent, terrifying, beautiful demand to be present in the living world. You are currently holding your own exit hostage, protecting a past that has already been eclipsed by the pulse in your throat.