Nobody’s Building You a Life. They’re Busy Surviving Their Own.

You spend a lot of years thinking that suffering earns you something.
That if you hurt cleanly enough — quietly enough — someone will reward you.

Maybe God.
Maybe the woman who didn't stay.
Maybe the ghost you keep trying to name in your sleep.

But suffering just burns time.
It doesn't carve out safe places.
It doesn’t build homes.
It just hollows you thinner and thinner until one day you snap and realize:

Nobody’s building you a life.
They’re busy duct-taping their own together.

The world doesn’t hate dreamers.
It just has no time for them.

It’s too busy handing trophies to the loudest, fastest, emptiest mouths.
Too busy mistaking volume for value, speed for depth, hunger for worth.

And it isn’t even malicious.
It’s just exhausted.
Same as you.

"You don’t die because the world hates you.
You die because it doesn’t notice."

You want a life that doesn’t burn your soul from the inside?

You have to build it under floodlights, while the ground shakes, while the neighbors laugh, while your own hands betray you.

You have to stitch it out of stubborn mornings and bad drafts and clothes that don't fit yet and silences that stretch long enough to scare you.

You have to fight every easy instinct to be polite, to be pleasing, to be invisible.

You have to be willing to be ugly before you're beautiful.
Alone before you're celebrated.
Real before you're safe.

There’s no cavalry.
There’s no parade.

Just you.
And whatever small, burning thing you still refuse to kill inside yourself.