To Continue

How does it feel to rip yourself open, thread by thread, pashmina by pashmina, until there is nothing left between you and the cold indifference of the world? To drag your unfinished self out of its cocoon too early—an unfeathered caterpillar, soft-bodied and uncemented, still trembling from the violence of metamorphosis. We spend our lives exposing parts of ourselves that were never ready to survive daylight: in people, in love, in ambition, in grief, in examinations, in every desperate attempt to be understood. Human existence itself feels like a slow public dissection. Beneath the abstraction of identities and achievements, we are merely fragile creatures lying bare beneath a silent cosmos, begging for answers from a universe that perfected the art of withholding them. Yet we continue clinging to that dangerous oblivious illusion called hope—the thin thread that convinces us suffering has meaning, that endurance will someday be rewarded, that survival is noble simply because it continues. But perhaps survival is not bravery at all. Perhaps it is only instinct dragging wounded bodies through time, long after the soul has exhausted its reasons to stay. And maybe that is the cruelest part of being alive: not that we suffer, but that even after seeing the emptiness behind everything, we still wake up

Because beneath all philosophy,
all ambition,
all poetry and rebellion,
there survives only one primitive instinct:

to continue.

Disha🌻