You wail of shackles,
but they are nowhere.
The chains you scream of
rattle only in your skull,
their echoes bouncing off empty corridors
you built yourself.
You claim wars with the world,
but the world doesn’t blink.
Not in its gaze,
not in its periphery,
not in the infinitesimal thought it grants you.
You tell stories of your struggles,
chasing freedom like a ghost
that slips through your fingers
even as you kneel in solemn ritual.
But the world isn't your prison.
You are.
Bound by convenience, by purpose,
by the quiet tyranny of self.
All your grand gestures,
all your pride-drenched theatrics,
are nothing more than ointments for raw, blistered vanity.
The universe moves on.
Always has.
Always will.
Indifference is the molecule of existence.
It stays,
a silent witness,
as you burn yourself alive
in a world that never paused to watch the matchstick light up.
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