We love the word "Karma" because it promises a predictable world. It suggests that if you are kind, the universe will be kind back, and if you are cruel, the shadows will eventually catch you. It turns life into a ledger—a math problem where everything eventually zeros out. But then comes the moment that breaks the logic.
The person who spent a lifetime building others up is struck by a sudden, silent illness. The one who cheated and stepped on heads to reach the top sits comfortably in the sun, unbothered and unpunished. You look at the wreckage of a good man’s life and you want to scream at the sky:
It’s not karma. It’s just us. And that has to be enough.
To say "it’s not karma" is an act of honesty. It is admitting that the universe is often chaotic, indifferent, and unfair. It’s acknowledging that bad things happen to wonderful people for no reason at all, and that luck is a ghost that doesn't care about your character.
Because if it were karma, it would mean they deserved it. If it were karma, it would mean every victim earned their tragedy and every villain earned their throne.
But there is a strange power in that realization. When we stop waiting for a cosmic scale to balance itself, we realize the only balance that exists is the one we create. We don't do good because we expect a reward from the stars; we do good because the world is unfair, and our kindness is the only thing standing against the dark.
