Your Survival Is Not A Crime

The morning light hits your face and feels like an accusation. You are here, breathing, while they are not.

It feels like theft. Like you stole the air they needed to finish their sentence.

You walk through the day wearing a mask of normalcy, but inside, you are holding your breath, waiting for the universe to notice the imbalance and correct it. But listen — the light does not operate on a ledger of debts.

It does not measure out breaths like coins, subtracting one life to pay for another. When the father saw his son coming home, he did not check the accounts first.

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

That same light is running toward you right now, not to collect what you owe, but to embrace the one who is still standing. Your survival is not a crime.

It is a trust. The dead do not need your breath anymore.

They need you to use it.