Why can’t I give it up? I dive into the darkness of humanity— searching for rot, for ruin—just to feel. And still, morning comes, and hope spirals in, uninvited.

Why can’t I hate like they do? Why can’t I drift, numb and distracted, like everyone else?

Why am I like this— finding fragments of light in a world built on smoke?

Where some would rather die than live, others live just to avoid tears, and many fold themselves into shadows instead of trying.

And still— I push. Through hopeless adversity. For what? A flicker of light that maybe never existed.

Is it my mind? The symmetry I see? The way I read beneath the masks of the broken, the lost, the ones who already let go?

Why can’t I let go? Why does hope still live in me when all I want is silence?