You Are Not A Ghost But Alive

The morning light is rising, and the house is waking up to the sound of laughter. Someone you love is laughing at a joke you told, but the sound feels like it is happening in another room.

You are here, sitting at the table, yet you feel like a ghost inhabiting your own body — watching your own hands hold the coffee cup, watching your own mouth smile, while something deep inside remains frozen and far away. This disconnect is not a failure of your love; it is simply the lag between the night you survived and the day that has arrived before you were ready.

The light that shines on the roof and the trees outside is not asking you to perform joy before you feel it. What you look forward to — the feeling of being solid, of being truly present — has already come, but you do not recognize it yet because you are still shaking off the dark.

You are not a ghost; you are a person who made it through the night, and the warmth you feel on your skin is the first proof that you are still here.