The world is not broken; we are the fracture. An internal geography of shattered glass where distrust is the only shield that does not weigh us down. In this barren land, vulnerability does not hide; it festers beneath an ancestral fear: the terror of freedom. And there, constant and merciless, time is no longer a needle—it is a frozen harpoon that drives every decision, forcing every sigh.

We are petrified in the comfort of discomfort. To break the structures, to dismantle that familiar refuge, frightens us more than the venom of the pain of dwelling within it. It is in this stagnation where the great loss is consumed. In the attempt not to look back, to leave the dead past where it fell, souls are lost, energy bleeds out. We shed shreds of our being every day, and the clock, that device that will kill us, does so not with its ticking, but with the life we allow to expire.

But if the price of peace is external indifference, then no lament is allowed. If you ask for nothing, you must mourn nothing. Only the echo of truth remains: if the heart overflows, the world will feel it. And if no one notices, if you are merely the shadow on the corner of a rainy night, your conscience will be dry of blame. Because in the end, the journey of the skin is the same for all of us, though we are crossed by different circumstances.

Trust the primitive instinct of the animal. In this unhinged universe, trusting is a courageous suicide. Silence the mind's echo and you will see how chaos reassembles itself. Walk until you find yourself, without letting the shadow overtake you. I, too, am lost, trying to find myself just like you, on this uncertain path. My only plea is not to drag anyone down, wounded, in the collapse. This is the final mockery of existence, the great paradox: to carry the richness of a mind that dissects and understands everything, forced to inhabit a soul that, due to its extreme exposure and wear, feels irreparable, disposable... cheap. Rich mind, with a cheap soul.