There are people on earth walking around wanting validation instead of change, so they surround themselves with liars.

How comforting it must be to dwell among mirrors that have learned to flatter, where every reflection bows obediently before the beholder, and no uninvited truth dares disturb the delicate architecture of illusion.

Such rooms are plentiful. Their inhabitants gather like mourners around a coffin, weeping for something they have never permitted to die. They call it loyalty. They call it friendship. Yet beneath the velvet drapery of their affection lies an unspoken covenant: Tell me only what allows me to remain as I am.

Others would sooner dine alone with the truth than feast among a thousand agreeable deceivers.

For truth is a merciless companion. It does not soften its voice for wounded pride, nor rearrange the heavens to accommodate a mortal’s preferred account of existence. It arrives without invitation, carrying neither apology nor consolation, and places before us the very thing we have spent a lifetime refusing to behold.

There comes an hour when the appetite for companionship simply perishes.

Not from bitterness, nor from some ancient wound left to fester, but from the realization that solitude demands nothing of the soul except its own company. There is no need to be included in every gathering, understood by every wandering mind, or heard above the clamor of those forever pleading to be witnessed.

What strange dependence possesses a creature who cannot endure the silence of its own existence?

The world has never required an audience for its tragedies. Mountains crumble without witnesses. Oceans swallow kingdoms without remorse. Even the stars surrender their brilliance to the darkness without begging the heavens to remember their names.

And still, mankind trembles at the prospect of standing alone.

Yet there is a certain magnificence in meeting defeat with bare hands, in staring into its hollow eyes until the monster reveals itself as a messenger. What appeared to be ruin was merely a redirection. What seemed a cruel denial was perhaps the first mercy granted by an unseen hand.

A locked door is not always a punishment.

Sometimes the house was never yours.

And when a room demands that one diminish the soul to remain within its walls, the wisest departure requires neither farewell nor the turning of a key. Let its inhabitants continue their masquerade. Let the chandeliers burn above their elaborate little performances.

There are other rooms. Other corridors. Entire kingdoms beyond the threshold.

No passing creature ought to possess the authority to darken an entire day. The sun does not extinguish itself because a stranger curses its light.

So onward we wander, carrying every scar as evidence of passage, every misfortune as the toll collected upon the road to destiny. There is dignity in the journey when one ceases to wrestle with what refuses to remain.

What belongs to us will find its way through the labyrinth.

What does not must be returned to the darkness from which it came.

And what a curious pilgrimage this mortal existence remains.

We are but temporary tenants of flesh, wandering through borrowed centuries, adorning ourselves with names, possessions, promises, and affections that time will eventually reclaim. We build our sanctuaries inside the hearts of others, though neither heart nor sanctuary was ever ours to possess.

We dread the grave while spending our lives rehearsing departures.

We cling to the familiar misery of existence, frightened of the great and nameless beyond, though perhaps death is no more than another doorway through which the soul must pass without its earthly companions.

What waits beyond the veil?

Perhaps the same vast consciousness that first breathed into our bones. Perhaps the gods themselves, divided into countless mortal vessels, wandering through joy and sorrow, betrayal and devotion, merely to discover the infinite dimensions of their own creation.

For what is a god who has never suffered? What wisdom could eternity possess without first tasting the exquisite cruelty of time?

And if divinity resides within us all, then surely some have mistaken their temporary vessels for thrones.

They demand worship where understanding should dwell. They collect devotion like offerings laid upon cold marble, feeding upon the reverence of those who have forgotten the sacredness of their own existence.

But even the most magnificent temple becomes a tomb when its deity has nothing left to teach.

The candles burn low. The incense turns bitter. The faithful depart one by one, until nothing remains but the echo of prayers that should never have been spoken.

And somewhere beyond those abandoned walls, a solitary figure walks beneath a moon indifferent to earthly worship, carrying neither resentment nor regret.

There is no altar upon the road ahead.

No congregation awaiting a confession.

Only the vast and beautiful unknown.

For some gods were never meant to be worshipped.

And some gods do not deserve altars.

(Nails in the Coffin-FFDP)