Call It Resurrection

There are graves where no body lies. Only a man, still breathing, beneath the weight of everything he refused to release. He lies there with soil in his mouth and tomorrow pressed against his ribs, fingers curled around the dead things he calls control. The earth does not ask him to surrender. It simply keeps falling. Clod by clod, name by name, until the face he once wore disappears beneath the ground. But somewhere beneath that darkness, something still breathes. Not the frightened self. Not the clenched fist. Something older. Something God buried on purpose. The seed does not mistake the darkness for death. So let the old self be lowered. Let the hands open. Let the jaw unclench. Let what you cannot carry fall from your grip and disappear beneath the soil. Do not claw your way back into the life that suffocated you. Go deeper. Let the darkness split you where you have been sealed shut. Let roots enter the wounds. Let rain find the places you thought were beyond saving. Because this is the holy reversal: indecision buries your unlived life; surrender buries the self that was preventing it. And when you finally rise, do not call it escape. Call it resurrection.