The Father Runs Before You Rise

The house is quiet now, and the fear arrives with the dark: that you do not know how to feel joy without a chemical catalyst. That the light inside you has gone dormant, waiting for a pill to wake it up.

But listen. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the boy to clean up. He did not wait for a reason.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

Your joy is not a reward you earn through chemistry. It is the father running toward you while you are still in the pig pen.

The light does not need your brain to manufacture the feeling. It is already here, pressing against the door of your chest, waiting for you to notice it is not dependent on your mood.

You are not broken because you cannot feel it yet. You are simply forgetting that the sun rises whether you open your eyes or not.