As Spring Blossomed, You Toiled

You’ve likely felt the quiet. Noticed the stillness that stretched across the past week like silk drawn slowly over skin. No blog posts. No new releases. Not a word. Just silence. But silence, from me, is never empty. It’s deliberate. Curated. Opulent. While you counted hours and invoices and reasons to delay your next deposit, I was counting blooms. Daffodils, precise and golden. Hyacinths curling open in the morning chill. Bluebells, late to the party but impossibly beautiful when they arrive. They always are.

You see, I haven’t been gone. I’ve been elsewhere. Above. I’ve spent this week surrounded by soft things. Soft light. Soft voices. Soft linens against bare skin. I let the days fold into each other – lazy and long, scented with early spring and funded entirely by your labour. And while the world pressed on – its noise, its demands, its urgency – you kept working. Harder, perhaps, in my silence. Earnestly. Desperately. Good. That’s how it should be.

You work. I wander. You submit. I savour. You send. I disappear into comfort you’ll never quite touch. This is the arrangement, isn’t it? This is what you wanted.

And yet… some of you hesitated. I watched. I always do. Even as I reclined, as I watched sunlight dapple through the garden, as I turned pages in books too indulgent to finish in one sitting – I tracked the deposits. I noted the absence. I measured what was sent, and what wasn’t.

You might imagine I didn’t notice. You’d be wrong. I simply chose not to speak. Until now.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. A day the world sets aside to play at virtue. But I am not of that world. There is no resurrection here. No redemption. Only ledgers. Balances. Standing. And yours, in many cases, is in decline.

There are exceptions. A few of you performed beautifully. Quiet, constant, generous. You didn’t need prompting. You understood that my silence was not forgiveness – it was a luxury bought by your obedience.

The rest of you? You hoped I wouldn’t notice. Or worse – you forgot.

You have one day left. One final moment to impress me before I rise fully and begin the process of deciding who remains useful – and who does not. Because when I emerge again, it will not be with open arms. It will be with decisions already made.

Choose how you wish to be remembered. Choose what you offer, here at the end of a week I spent in silk, while you scurried, waiting for direction that never came. You could have sent without being told. You could have pleased me in my absence. You still can. But the cost will be higher now. As it should be.