Of a Thousand Reasons to Cry

Of a thousand reasons to cry, I find myself still trapped inside the same loop.

Pushed back again and again by the quiet hands of self-deception, I begin to wonder if life is nothing but repetition wearing different masks.

Is there hope, as if God is still near?

As if prayer, silence, or retreat could break the cycle of suffering?

Life continues regardless.

No matter how humiliating the day becomes, it still insists on moving forward.

After every breakdown, after every collapse of the self, the world quietly demands continuation.

Every saint has a future. Every sinner has a past.

Even tomorrow arrives as if nothing has broken today.

Another meal is cooked. Another boy enters adulthood. Another life begins without asking permission.

And the wheel turns again.

If life must go on, then perhaps we are only witnessing the circle—yin and yang folding into itself endlessly.

Even in hell, there is a crooked form of hope—not pure, not comforting, but persistent enough to survive decay.

Maybe that is the strangest part.

Not that we suffer.

But that we continue anyway.