My life is dieing

 Life Without Apology

Life is not a straight line but a thousand tangled roads, sometimes leading to joy, often into silence. It begins in cries and ends in echoes, and in between we learn to fake strength, mourn quietly, and smile with tired eyes. Some people walk beside us only long enough to teach us how to be alone. Others stay just long enough to show us what it feels like to be left behind. We chase purpose like fireflies in dusk, never catching them, only admiring the flicker and regretting the dark. People say time heals all, but they forget that memory is not linear—it loops, haunts, and waits. We live through moments we think we own, yet they vanish like smoke through fingers we cannot tighten. And when the people we love leave, either by choice or by fate, they take pieces of us that never grow back.

> “Life asked Death, ‘Why do people love me but hate you?’ 

Death replied, ‘Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am a painful truth.’”

We are not born for permanence. Every relationship is a rehearsal for goodbye, and even love wears thin when life becomes loud. We seek validation from voices that never cared, hoping if we scream into their silence, we will find something solid. But silence only mirrors back the hollowness we carry. Life teaches lessons no school prepares you for—how to let go, how to endure absence, how to pretend you're okay while shattering inside. We learn to mourn while functioning. We bury grief under smiles. We keep breathing, but not living.

Sometimes we wish people could die for a moment just to understand what it felt like when they emotionally left us. And then some do die—and we wish we had held their hand more, said less in anger, and more in love. But the dead don’t speak, and our apologies die with them.

> “People come and go. The best will stay. The rest will teach you how to stand alone.”

A poem for this feeling, in the dark hour when nothing makes sense:

```

I built a home in someone’s soul,

They left, and it collapsed whole.

The echoes still live in my chest,

Of words unsaid, and unrest.

I loved like water through stone,

Carving hope into hearts unknown.

But water flows, and stone erodes,

And love, like rivers, finds new roads.

```

In this age of ghosted friendships and transactional love, it becomes harder to know who’s genuine. Yet life doesn't stop. Bills must be paid. Roles must be played. We become performers in our own tragedies. And when night falls, the weight is heavier. That's when we remember that loneliness is not the absence of people—it’s the absence of being understood.

There’s no grand ending in life, just the slow undoing of youth, of faith, of certainty. One by one, dreams become memories, and people we swore we couldn't live without become faces we haven't seen in years. Death is not the only loss. There are smaller deaths every day: a conversation that never happened, a reunion that came too late, a love that went unloved.

> "The tragedy of life is not death, but what we let die inside of us while we live."

 — Norman Cousins

Those who do not care about you will never know how much it hurt to keep caring. They’ll move on, and you’ll stay back, rewriting the past like a book missing its final chapter. You will find yourself standing in rooms filled with people and still feel alone. You’ll scream into pillows and call it coping. But somehow, you survive.

The weight doesn't go away, but you grow stronger legs. The tears still fall, but now you let them. Healing is not forgetting—it is learning to live with ghosts. You’ll keep walking, not because it gets easier, but because you were built for this. Your scars will not shine, but they will make you real.

And when someone finally sees you—really sees you—they will not flinch at your pain, or shrink at your story. They will sit in your silence without asking you to smile. Until then, walk. Cry. Write. Heal. Exist—loudly, softly, brokenly, truthfully.