Your Peace Is Not A Theft

The screen glows with the world breaking, while your coffee stays warm and your street stays quiet. That gap between the fire on the glass and the peace in your room feels like a crime.

Like you are stealing comfort while others burn. But the light does not condemn you for being safe.

It does not demand that you set your own house on fire to prove you care. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

The light runs toward you in your guilt, not to shame you for the warmth you hold, but to remind you that your peace is not a theft. It is a station.

A place where the light can rest, so it can flow through you later. You are not the savior of the suffering you witness.

You are the vessel that must remain unbroken to carry the water.