生きる

It feeds on the echoes of what you lost.

It knows the floor plan of your loneliness,

the precise weight of the quiet that settles after everyone else has gone.

It whispers your greatest hits of sorrow,

and you, a desperate audience, listen.

But this is not a requiem for the ghost.

This is an eviction notice.

The skin on your hands remembers things your mind can't.

The shape of a memory, the texture of a goodbye.

And you trace those lines, not as an archaeology of hurt,

but as a map of the land you've walked.

The calluses are your trophies.

The tired eyes are your flags.

So today, find a window.

Let the sunlight, a brazen, unapologetic thing,

land on your face like a trespasser.

Don't ask it for a reason. Don't demand a miracle.

Just let it be. Just let it land.

Because the smallest acts of living are the most defiant.

This is not a story of the storm ending.

It's a story of realizing you've become the lighthouse,

a quiet, stubborn beacon in the chaos.

And you are still here.

And the light, though you may not feel it,