The Fuck Is Karma?

They say karma’s a bitch—like a shadow that hounds you, a ledger inked in cosmic revenge. But what if karma isn’t the scorekeeper’s scowl? What if it’s the slow-burning fire in your own chest, folding you inward, like a fractal folding into itself and/or unfolding you deeper into your own mystery?

The universe doesn’t carry grudges. It breathes in cycles, spiral spirals spiraling—endlessly, not to break your enemies, but to unravel you. Karma is the wind pulling loose threads of your soul—tugging at your stitched-up wounds—not to bleed others dry, but so you bleed open. It is the sea that pulls the tide back—not to drown the foolish, but to reveal the hidden ocean floor beneath your footsteps.

In this surreal cityscape of your becoming, every cracked mirror, every echo of past pain, is a portal. The faces you wish to punish become constellations in your sky guiding stars flickering with lessons, not curses. Karma is the slow architect of your own labyrinth, a maze folding time like paper cranes folding futures into the shape of your reckoning.

It is not a whip cracked at another’s back but a mirror polished by fire—reflecting your own shadows dancing on the walls. You are both prisoner and key, warden and dreamer, spiraling forever through your own becoming—because karma’s real bite is not in its teeth, but in how it tears you open so you might finally meet yourself.

And meeting yourself is the most violent kindness there is—this endless unspooling of the self, layer after layer, like peeling skin from a wound that never quite closes. You want revenge, but instead you get revelation. You want closure, but you get the long, slow bloom of understanding, bitter and sweet in the same breath.

Time, too, is an accomplice—neither friend nor enemy but a patient thief. It steals your certainties and scatters them like ashes, leaving you with questions folded into your ribcage. How many times must the past whisper in your ear before you listen? How many times must the heart break open before it learns to heal itself without a scar?

There is no justice in the way we think of it. Justice is a story we tell to soften the sharp edges of chaos. Karma is not about making wrongs right. It is about making you right—with yourself, with the shadows you carry, with the silence that stretches between breaths.

It’s a slow dance with your own ghosts, a conversation with the parts of you you tried to bury or blame or forget. And if you’re lucky, if you are brave enough, that dance becomes a reckoning. A reckoning not with others, but with the infinite complexity of your own soul—its capacity for cruelty and grace, despair and hope.

This is why karma bites—not because it punishes, but because it demands that you live fully in your contradictions, that you hold your pain and your love in the same trembling hand. It is the ache of growing up inside yourself, the fracture that makes light through.

So maybe karma isn’t a bitch at all. Maybe karma is the quiet, relentless tenderness of becoming whole—one broken piece folded into another, until the edges blur, and you become something new, something unrecognizable even to yourself.

And in that unrecognizability lies freedom.

Because in the end, the only one you can ever truly punish is yourself, and the only one who can ever truly forgive is the self you are still learning to meet.