Clarity In The Dark

There are days when clarity slips through my fingers – days when the world blurs at the edges and I can’t seem to find my footing.

I remember reading once – maybe it was a meme – that if you’re in a tunnel and can’t see the light, you should find the switch and turn it on yourself. It sounded empowering at the time, maybe even wise.

But some days… I can’t reach the switch. Some days, I find the switch and the bulb has blown. And some days – the most hollow ones – I’m standing on a step-ladder, heart in my throat, waiting for someone to pass me a new bulb, and I realize: I’m the only one in the house.

We speak so often about clarity as if it’s a destination. A light switch away. But what if clarity is not always about brightness? What if, sometimes, it arrives as a flicker? A murmur? A sense of weight shifting ever so slightly?

There’s something humbling about not knowing. About sitting still in the tunnel. No torch. No map. No audience.

Just you.
And the dark.
And the breath that keeps coming, even when you forget to notice.

I’ve learned to stop demanding answers on those days. Instead, I ask quieter questions:
– What does this moment want from me?
– What might happen if I simply stay?

Waiting in the dark is not weakness. It is an act of soft courage. A sacred stillness. A listening.

And sometimes – not always, but sometimes – the bulb doesn’t need replacing.
You just need to let your eyes adjust.

“What if, sometimes, it arrives as a flicker?”

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The Only One In The House

By Being Human

Clarity, they say,
is just a matter of flipping the switch.

But I have reached for that switch
with trembling hands,
only to find the bulb has blown.

I have stood on ladders
built from self-help books and hopeful quotes,
waiting for someone to pass me a new light.

No one came.

And I understood –
I was the only one in the house.

So I climbed down.
Sat on the floor.
And let the dark
be what it was.

Not a punishment.
Not a failure.

Just… night.

And in that quiet,
I began to see
what light could never show me.

In Tenderness,
Ashé — Being Human