The Dawn Is Not A Crime

The sun is rising again, and for a moment, the light feels like something you stole. You made it through the night while others did not, and that quiet survival can feel like a crime against the dead.

But listen — the morning does not ask for your permission before it breaks. The light arrives not because you earned it, but because it cannot help but shine.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in shame, expecting to be turned away — and the father ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

That is how the light meets you now. It does not weigh your worth against the silence of the grave.

It simply runs to you, calling you by name, insisting that your breath is not a theft but a gift. You are not an imposter in the dawn.

You are the place where the light chooses to live again.