The Last Thought Before Silence

"Humans will forever rebel, even when they know they can never win."

I don't know... I've forgotten who said that. Perhaps it was a quote from a book, a line from a film, or a conversation I overheard by chance.

But I think it's not just humans; animals too, when driven from their habitat, will resist in the same way.

Nature is the same; it can rage if constantly damaged by its inhabitants.

There's a point where everything alive will surely rebel to preserve its own existence, if something like absurdity dominates their lives too much.

This reminds me of the myth of Sisyphus... In Greek mythology, he was cursed by the gods to roll a boulder to the top of a hill. Each time he neared the summit, the stone would roll back down, forcing him to repeat it... again and again, forever.

Perhaps that saying was trying to reference the story of Sisyphus above.

However, Sisyphus was a trickster, a king who defied the gods and toyed with death. He deserved his retribution—at least according to divine law. He was punished for his crimes, for transgressing the boundaries set by the rulers of the universe. So the suffering he endured was a kind of consequence.

But me? I am no king, nor a trickster. I am not someone who has ever defiantly challenged fate with arrogance or toyed with the lives of others.

I am merely someone trying to survive, trying to live as one should. So then, why am I given a curse like this?

Those words led me to question everything again.

Have I truly been rebelling all this time to achieve a victory?

If that's the case, if all this time I've been fighting to win; what is the true form of victory I desire?

Is it to be acknowledged?

To be loved?

To be given a place?

I don't know. The more I think about it, the blurrier the line between defeat and victory in my life becomes. Perhaps because I've lived too long in the gray areas, I've forgotten what it feels like to yearn for something that could be called an achievement.

But as I recall, I have never truly tried to win at anything. Not in love, not in life, not even in the matter of saving myself.

Because I know that winning doesn’t necessarily bring happiness... nor does it bring satisfaction that can fill the emptiness that has long been my companion in life.

Pride?

My self-respect was abandoned long ago—not because I wanted to, but because circumstances forced me to surrender to shame and disappointment. And even after I cast all that away, no one cared.

I grew quieter than before, even more estranged from myself. So, who deserves to feel proud of the destruction I've wrought upon myself? No one. Absolutely no one.

If I may... Even though no one asked me to speak, I feel compelled to refute that claim.

I want to speak as a representative of those who once had ambition. Of those who once tried to love. And of those whose souls were slowly murdered by circumstances, by time, by a life that never offered choices.

Human life... it fundamentally possesses a pattern. A hidden current that continually repeats itself in various forms and guises—this is what I call the symbol of existence.

This isn't merely coincidence or the result of free will, but rather a kind of recurring mechanism—a cycle we unconsciously follow.

That pattern can be hidden behind small decisions we deem trivial, or it can be clearly displayed in the great tragedies that shake our lives. And when we can read that pattern, we can guess where life will lead us.

Just like a "myth" that has a cycle of repetition across different eras, in various stories, and through different individuals. It lives in various mediums, transforming into tragedy or hope, into rebirth or destruction.

No matter how modern the world becomes, "myth" remains present, weaving itself into human stories as a reminder that we all live within similar patterns.

It's possible that the pain I feel today is perhaps a shadow of someone else's pain a hundred years ago, which will also be felt by others a hundred years from now.

Similarly, when someone positions themselves as a writer, there's a kind of inner instinct that compels them to continually repeat similar themes or story elements—betrayal, loss, tug-of-war love, sudden death.

Unconsciously, writers are always seeking out bitter moments that can strike the reader's soul.

But what I'm talking about here is something far grander—something terrifying because it's unavoidable. Fate itself—perhaps even God.

A system of causality that cannot be bargained with or refused. Something that was written even before you opened your eyes for the first time. And within that decree, there are no options for objection. No negotiations either.

It's not something you can discuss, and you are never truly given a choice. You are merely given a direction and commanded to walk.

This is the real curse; a suffering you never asked for, nor is it the result of a mistake you made.

It burdens you with a life scenario you did not choose, did not desire, and cannot change. It creates imbalance among humans—some are born with abundant luck, while others are immediately choked by reality from the very first second they breathe air. And from there, envy, malice, and the thirst for vengeance begin to bloom.

In the end, any rebellion you wage will only drag you deeper into the abyss of despair. You'll keep watching the world laugh at your efforts—seeing those around you get what they want, while you can't even dream of it.

So, humans won't rebel forever. There's a point where rebellion is no longer an option, because their energy is depleted and hope is too weary to be rekindled.

At that point, humans will begin to feel so small in the face of an unchangeable reality. They'll feel that the only way to survive is to bow down, shrink, and hide their existence from a universe too vast and too cruel.

They begin to accept that perhaps, from the very beginning, they were indeed created only to be part of the worst side of someone's life story.

When someone reaches that moment, they no longer enjoy life—no longer wish to be given life. They even curse life itself.

Instead of fighting to achieve something called victory, they begin to crave freedom.

They are tired of being a prisoner in a narrative they never wrote themselves. They want to break free from the bonds of a destiny that gave them no choices, from a life that only gave them the role of a victim.

This is where I am now.

I won't lead you to make the same decisions as me. Nor do I intend to justify the choice I'm making.

We were all born into different destinies—in different spaces, under skies that sprinkle reality unequally. We are shaped by different causes and effects, by wounds that can't always be compared.

You have every right to determine the direction of your own rebellion; whether to continue it, stop it, or reshape it based on the gains and losses of what you hold onto or perhaps wish to release.

Only, I have walked too far through a dirty and thorny valley. I ran with a limp, hands no longer straight, and a vision completely dark.

And now... I feel it's time to stop. It's enough. It's time to close the curtain and step down from this stage, before I truly vanish into a role I never asked for in the first place.

And...

For those of you who also have to bear a similar curse as me.

Keep walking.

Never tire of betraying fate.

Perhaps, behind your fierce struggle, there is someone who still admires you from afar.

May luck be with you, in a world whose script and score have been composed by a maestro who is said to be... 'The Most Just'.

Goodbye.