Much-Needed Light: A Poetic Journey Through Darkness and Inner Awakening

She can’t see,
not for the lack of eyes or the shape of vision,
but for the shadows that grow like vines,
wild and relentless, around her spine.

There are stars above,
but they seem too far away,
a distance not measured in miles
but in silence, in the weight of unsaid things.
Her world hums low,
beneath the usual pitch of morning sounds.
No birds, no wind,
just the soft ticking of forgotten time.

She stumbles in the dark,
though her feet touch the ground.
There’s a rhythm in her steps,
a beat out of sync with the world’s pulse,
like she’s waiting for a song that hasn’t begun yet.

Much-needed light,
she whispers to no one,
the way sailors might whisper to the sea.
She doesn’t expect it to come
like some blazing torch,
like some messianic dawn.
No.
She craves the kind of light
that creeps in sideways,
through cracks in old walls,
the kind that’s subtle, hesitant,
the kind that makes the dust visible
but not harsh.

Her hands fumble for something to hold,
and she wonders if it’s not the darkness
but the nothingness she fears.
The way the air feels empty,
the way her skin brushes against absence,
as though the very space around her
is vanishing, moment by moment.

And yet,
the light she dreams of is not a savior.
She doesn’t need salvation;
she just wants to see—
even if it’s the smallest thing,
the curve of a leaf,
the edge of a cup,
the trembling lip of her reflection in water.

Perhaps the light she seeks
is not in the sky or the sun.
Perhaps it is somewhere hidden deep
beneath layers of skin,
behind memories,
within fragments of long-lost days.

They told her once
that light travels in straight lines,
but she knows better now.
She knows light bends,
twists, folds itself into corners,
finds its way into eyes that won’t open.

And she,
standing still now,
waiting without waiting,
knows that much-needed light
does not burst like dawn,
does not announce its arrival.

Instead, it slides into the room like a rumor,
finds its place on the floor,
where shadows once curled in arrogance.
It settles softly,
like an afterthought,
turning her darkness into something less cruel,
something almost tender.

She knows she can’t see,
not yet.
But she feels the warmth of it,
the much-needed light,
and in the quiet hum of her breath,
in the delicate pause before the next beat,
she understands—
sometimes, light arrives
not to be seen,
but to be felt.

And in that moment,
in the subtle shift of air,
she sees everything.

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