The Hollow Scales of Karmic Justice

Karma has always been described as something distant. A quiet force that takes its time. A balance that will eventually settle itself, even if not today, but soon, in its own time. It comforts people in the same way waiting rooms do—by promising that something will happen, just not yet. But sometimes, karma feels immediate. Not because the universe is moving faster, but because guilt is.

For those who feel deeply, karma does not wait. It arrives in the form of overthinking, in sleepless nights, in the quiet replay of words that should have been softer, actions that could have been kinder. The mind becomes its own courtroom. Every mistake is examined, every intention questioned. Punishment is not handed down by the world—it is self-inflicted, constant, and unrelenting. And so, it feels like karma comes quicker. Heavier. Closer.

But then there is the unsettling contrast.

There are those who seem untouched. People who do worse—who take more, harm more, choose themselves at the expense of others—and yet move freely, sleep easily, continue without visible consequence. There is no hesitation in their steps, no weight in their voice. If karma exists, it does not appear to be keeping pace. The frustration deepens when this pattern stretches beyond the personal and into the public.

Consider the recent political cases of unresolved accountability. Such is the case of Zaldy Co and Ronald “Bato” dela Rosa, names that circulate in headlines, tied to accountability yet drifting further from it. Not detained. Location unknown. The absence of consequence becomes louder than the accusations themselves. It raises a question that lingers longer than the news cycle: who actually carries the weight of wrongdoing?

Or look at the quiet, everyday burden carried by ordinary Filipinos. The rising cost of fuel driven by private companies whose decisions ripple outward—tightens its grip not on those who set the prices, but on those who live with them. Jeepney drivers, delivery riders, transport workers—they absorb the cost, stretch their income, carry the strain. The system presses down hardest on those with the least room to bend.

And still, they keep going.

This is where the idea of karma begins to fracture. Because if karma were purely external—purely about visible consequence—then the world would look more balanced than it does. Those who do harm would fall quickly. Those who endure would be spared. But that is not what happens.

Karma, at least in the way it is felt, is uneven. It settles differently depending on who is capable of carrying it.

Those who feel guilt carry their consequences internally. They hold themselves accountable even when no one else does. Their punishment is not public—it is private, quiet, and continuous. Meanwhile, those who do not feel guilt move untouched, not because they are free of consequence, but because they are free of recognition. And maybe that is the difference.

Karma is not always a visible force. Sometimes, it is the ability or inability to feel.

To feel remorse. To reflect. To question oneself. To sit with the discomfort of knowing that something could have been done better. These are not weaknesses. They are, in a way, the very mechanisms of accountability. But they also make the weight heavier.

Because in a world where systems fail to distribute consequences fairly, where power shields some and burdens others, karma becomes internalized. It lives inside the people who are already trying to be better. It presses hardest on those who are already careful. And that is where the tension lies.

Because it begins to feel unfair—that those who try, who reflect, who carry guilt, seem to suffer more than those who do not. But maybe the question is not why karma feels uneven. Maybe the question is what kind of person one becomes in response to it.

To feel guilt is to recognize impact. To reflect is to resist becoming careless. To carry weight is to prove that one is still capable of seeing beyond oneself. In a world where some move without consequence, that awareness becomes its own quiet form of integrity.

It does not make things easier. It does not make the world fair.

But it does mean that not all absence of punishment is freedom—and not all weight is punishment.