If someone had told me years ago that I would find myself
here, sitting in my mother’s house, shrouded in misfortune and solitude, I
would have laughed at the absurdity of it. I had always believed that by now,
my life would be different—filled with love, success, and the fruits of my
labor. I imagined a home of my own, a family, and the quiet satisfaction of
knowing that my kindness had paved the way for a blessed life. But life has a
cruel way of proving you wrong. I have learned that goodness does not guarantee
anything. It does not shield you from suffering. Instead, it seems to invite
it. Every act of kindness, every selfless gesture, has only stripped me further
of what I had, leaving me empty-handed, as if I had been offering pieces of
myself to the world, only to be left with nothing in return.
Had I known that all my efforts, the sacrifices I made, and
the dreams I chased would amount to nothing, perhaps I would have chosen an
easier road. I would have spared myself the torment, the relentless striving
for something that was never meant to be. Maybe I would have settled, accepted
a simpler fate, rather than fighting for a vision that was never mine to claim.
It seems those who wished me harm have won. They celebrate
each day as I sink deeper into despair, ensuring that even the faintest glimmer
of hope is swiftly extinguished. At every turn, they stand as unseen
gatekeepers, blocking any path forward, ensuring that I remain trapped in this
abyss—crushed, broken, and forgotten. Their envy fuels them, as if my suffering
is not already enough.
They despise me without cause, their hatred burning without
reason. It consumes them, festering in their souls until nothing remains but
the bitter satisfaction of watching me fall. They feed off my sorrow as though
it sustains them, as though their own joy is incomplete unless it is built upon
my misery. Even when happiness surrounds them, they fail to grasp it, blinded
by the jealousy that festers within. And so, they have condemned me to this
unfulfilled existence, not realizing that the very life they wish upon me is
one they could never endure themselves.
But no matter how deep their malice runs, no matter how many
doors they slam shut before me, I know this truth: it is not their voices that
decide my fate. At the end of the day, it is God who speaks for me. And when
God plans, when God decides, so shall it be.
