A Pineal Glands Testimony
I was warned that light calls light — and that light also calls shadow.
When I opened, there they came: whispers braided with my old fears, shapes at the edge of sleep, tempting bargains dressed as shortcuts home.
They wanted my doubt, my shame, the tiny cracks I thought I’d hidden. They wanted me small.
But I learned something radical: my wounds are windows, not weaknesses. My heart, though stitched and scarred, is incandescent.
So when darkness pressed close I did not run. I named it. I breathed. I let the ancient yes inside me answer every knock.
My presence — simple, honest, unshowy — became a lighthouse: no bravado, just steady light. It did not repel with force but dissolved with truth.
When their hands reached, my light did not push; it invited. It showed the mirror: here is the fear you carry. Here is the child you forgot.
Some left. Some were redeemed by the very thing they sought to consume. And some dissolved into dust, learning that even hunger can be met with compassion.
Awakening does not armor you against storms. It turns you into the weather — a kind of sun that warms what it touches and unmasks what lurks in shadow.