They told me light was soft, a gift that asks for nothing in return. But no one told me it had weight, how it presses against the ribs long after the room has gone dark. I have been carrying it since childhood— not a flame, not a halo— a small white stone that would not let me sleep. And I walked, not because I was strong, but because the light made me a stranger to the night. Every shadow I passed turned a face toward me, as if I owed them something I could not name. I gave and gave, until I forgot which part of me was mine. The weight of light is not a burden to be thrown. It is the hand that holds me when I stand alone. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to carry what the darkness cannot own. There were nights I pressed my hands against my chest, hoping to find a door where the glow could leave. But the light had already made a home in me, folded into the hollow of every breath. Those who came close asked for warmth, not knowing I was burning just to keep the cold away. Still, I did not turn from them. I only learned to stand with the fire in my spine. Every cry I answered taught my own voice how to break. And yet, in the breaking, I found the sound was not mine alone. The weight of light is not a burden to be thrown. It is the hand that holds me when I stand alone. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to carry what the darkness cannot own. If I fall, let me fall with the light still in my hands. If I break, let the pieces glow like embers in the dark. The world does not ask us to be bright. It only asks us not to vanish. And I have learned to carry this glow not as a crown, but as a quiet duty. I am not leaving. I am becoming the light I carry. The weight of light is not a burden to be thrown. It is the hand that holds me when I stand alone. We rise, we rise, we rise, not to escape the night— but to carry what the darkness cannot own. The light remains... the light remains...
