You Are Not a Debt But a Witness

The afternoon stretches out, long and gray, and you sit in the middle of it carrying a debt you cannot pay. You feel like a thief, stealing breath that belonged to someone else, living a life that should have ended with theirs.

The guilt says your existence is a mistake, an unpaid invoice stamped on your soul. But the light does not keep ledgers.

It does not measure your survival against their absence. There was a man born blind, and the people around him asked whose sin caused it—his or his parents'.

They wanted a culprit. They wanted a debt.

The light refused the math. It said the blindness was not a punishment, but a canvas.

Your life is not a theft. It is a canvas.

The dead do not need your breath; they need your seeing. Go home to your own people and tell them how much the light has done for you, and how it has had mercy on you.

You are not a debtor. You are a witness.