Your Safety Is Not A Theft

The morning light hits your face and the first thing you feel is not relief, but shame. You are safe.

You are warm. And somewhere, someone you love is breaking.

You carry the weight of your own comfort like a crime you committed while they were suffering. You put on the mask of okayness because you cannot bear to let them see that you slept.

But listen — the light that rose today did not check your credentials before it touched your window. It shines on the evil and the good, on the grieving and the resting, without discrimination.

Your safety is not a theft from their pain. It is a station.

A place where you can hold the light so it does not go out entirely. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the apology. He ran.

Before the speech, before the explanation of where the money went — he ran. The light runs toward you, not away from your rest.

It does not condemn you for surviving. It meets you in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the guilt, and says: I am here.

You are not safe because you are selfish. You are safe because you are needed.

The world needs people who are awake enough to carry the dawn.