Once upon a time, I believed everyone had a spark of good in them. Not just good behavior, but a deep, untouchable light—hope. That even the ones who seemed hardened or distant were simply waiting to be seen, to be understood, to be loved back to life. I believed that with enough grace, enough patience, enough truth, people would rise. That they wanted to.
But I don’t believe that anymore.
Now, I see most people drifting. Fast asleep with their eyes wide open. Coasting through life with the same dead routines, avoiding mirrors, avoiding questions, avoiding themselves. It’s easier that way. Safer. Comfortable. Victimhood offers a soft bed to lie in. Heroism demands a sword.
Taking ownership of your life is a brutal, sacred task. And too many are terrified of it. They cling to the story that someone else is to blame. Their mother didn’t love them right. Their father left too early. The wound became a home. And now, they decorate that pain like a living room they never plan to leave.
Some will go to therapy for years, but never do the work. They’ll read the self-help books, speak the language of growth, but live in the same mess. Because healing isn’t about talking. Healing is choosing. Changing. Owning your part in the chaos. It’s a kind of death, really. And most people aren’t ready to die to who they’ve been.
They want the world to shift around them. They want hand-holding, step-by-step walkthroughs, someone to drag them to purpose. They want you to meet them where they are, and they never plan to move. They want the prize without the sweat. The show without the rehearsal. And so, they perform for themselves—pretending they’re someone else, hoping the mask will feel like home.
But the thing about awakening is this: once you’re awake, the noise is unbearable. The conversations are shallow. The energy in a room can feel like poison. And peace, once a gift, becomes a curse—because peace cannot survive in small, toxic spaces.
I don’t hate people. I hate sleepwalkers—those who refuse to look inward. I hate dishonesty masked as humility. I hate the way people beg to be understood while refusing to understand themselves. I have no patience for it anymore.
And maybe that’s harsh. Maybe that makes me cold. But when you’ve clawed your way out of your own darkness, when you’ve sat alone and owned every ugly part of your story—your lies, your blame, your rage—it changes how you see the world.
There’s nothing romantic about being stuck. Nothing noble about refusing to evolve. And I have no desire to sit in circles reminiscing about high school field parties like life didn’t happen after that. If the best time of your life happened before you were even an adult, what have you been doing with all this time?
We are here now. The present is raw and full of possibility. There’s more life ahead than behind—if we let go. If we dare to step into it.
I don’t want to be around people who are addicted to their past. Who use their wounds as personality traits. Who expect applause for surviving but refuse to thrive. I don’t want to sit in rooms where minds are small and gossip is currency. Where you can’t speak the truth without offending someone who’s never met theirs.
It’s lonely on this side of healing. That’s the price. But I’ll pay it. Because now that I’m unstuck, the last thing I want is to relive the old tapes. I want quiet. I want clarity. I want to keep slipping through the cracks, away from the circus. Let the world spin. Let them talk.
I’m not here for the noise anymore.
I’m walking forward. Alone, if I have to. Because peace might be a curse in shallow rooms, but it’s a blessing out here in the open. Where the air is clear. Where the lies fall away. Where the past doesn’t own you.
And that’s where I’m going.
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