Some tales lose their beginning long before their story begins to unfold. Why do we wait so endlessly? Why must we sit idly as the world around us crumbles, only to think of mending when it is far too late? Waiting… A ritual of silence, endless and aching, where we do not even know what it is we await. And yet, within, something burns. A quiet, ceaseless ruin takes root in our souls, and still, we do nothing. We carry these broken ‘if onlys’ as though they were sacred relics. Are we, each of us, ruins borne upon the tides of time? Winged creatures that cannot muster the will to rise. Tell me, why is it that we are unloved? Why must the absence of love become the weight that defines us?
This tale belongs to all who tread the shadowed path of rejection. It begins the moment you believe your mother does not love you. It deepens when the silence of your father’s absence grows louder than any word ever spoken. Between the walls of a home that breathes only in its stillness, you grow, shaped not by care but by the weight of expectation. Yet, when all has turned to ash, when you stand amidst the ruins of yourself, hollow attempts at repair arise. The act of rebuilding a house, a relationship, a sense of self is never about the structure itself, but the quiet reckoning with what lies beneath the ruins. But tell me, are these efforts made to heal, or are they merely a salve for guilt? How cruel it is! Nothing can soothe a heart already broken, nor resurrect a dream already buried. These gestures are not made for your solace but to quiet the restless consciences of those who failed you.
And so, you retreat inward, asking, “Where do I belong?” The world offers no answer. Instead, it demands. If you do not belong, find another place, they say. And if no such place exists, craft one with trembling hands. Yet how can one craft a home from ruins? How can one shape belonging from fragments that no longer fit? The silence between walls mirrors the silence within, where one questions not just who they are, but whether they deserve to be rebuilt at all. None will see your fatigue; none will care. Instead, they thrust comparisons at you, brandishing the misery of others as though it were a weapon. “Look at them,” they say. “They suffer more. Be grateful for your plight.” But what if you cannot bow to such cruel arithmetic? What if you do not wish to be strong?
Life is a merciless mirror, forcing us to gaze upon our fractures. It demands that we confront what lies broken within us. But acknowledgment alone is no balm. To live is to build again, though the stones of yesterday weigh heavy upon the foundations of today. Beginnings come too late, and they are never whole. It is always in the final hours that one realizes love withheld is love wasted. Yet by then, the weight of absence has already hardened into walls too high to scale. The shadows of the past seep into the present, dimming the light of tomorrow.
Sometimes, all one desires is to simply be. Not to rebuild the ruins, not to transform the wreckage, but to sit among it, to name it home. And yet even then, acknowledgment comes only in the lateness of the hour. “We loved you,” they may say, but the words arrive like a fleeting echo, too faint, too late to matter. Why must their voices wait until the hour is so far spent? Perhaps they never loved. Perhaps they lacked the courage to face the void they helped create.
And so, we linger in their cowardice, drowning in the shadows of their failures. We carry the weight of deception, bearing the cruel jest of love professed too late. To rebuild is an act of defiance, not merely against the past but against the self that once surrendered to ruin. Yet rebuilding demands faith a faith that often feels misplaced when all one has known is absence. To think the unloved could suddenly become beloved what folly is this? It is not love at all, but the barren vanity of those seeking absolution. They see only themselves reflected in your suffering, never truly you.
And you, you, the wanderer amidst ruins, the bearer of silent burdens drift unseen. The world surges forward, a faceless tide indifferent to your anchorless soul. In this cacophony of life, even the faint song of a bird may halt your breath, its melody lingering in the void. Perhaps it teaches you not to rebuild, but to rest amid the wreckage. Perhaps it whispers of a time when someone might see you, might love you.
But until that time, tell me this: Who art thou, to hope?
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