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. Maybe a quote from a book, a movie line, or just a snippet of conversation I once overheard.

But I don’t think it applies only to humans. Animals, too—when driven from their home—will fight back the same way.

So will nature, which grows furious when endlessly destroyed by its own dwellers.

There is always a point where every living thing will rise up to defend its own existence, once absurdity dominates too much of their lives.

It reminds me of Sisyphus. In Greek mythology, he was cursed by the gods to push a boulder up a hill, only for it to roll back down each time he neared the top. Again, and again, and again—for eternity.

Perhaps that saying was meant to refer to Sisyphus.

But Sisyphus was a trickster, a king who defied the gods and toyed with death. He deserved his punishment—or so the heavens ruled. His suffering was the consequence of his crimes.

But me? I am neither king nor trickster. I have never mocked fate out of arrogance, nor played with another’s life.

I’m just someone trying to endure, to live as I should. So why, then, was I given a curse like this?

That line made me ask myself again:

Have I truly been rebelling all this time—fighting for some kind of victory?

If so, what victory did I ever hope to win?

To be acknowledged?

To be loved?

To belong?

I don’t know. The more I think, the more blurred the line between defeat and victory becomes. Perhaps I’ve lived too long in the gray that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to yearn for something called an achievement.

As far as I remember, I never really tried to win—not in love, not in life, not even in saving myself.

Because I know that winning something doesn’t guarantee happiness. It doesn’t fill the void that has long since become my only companion.

Pride?

I abandoned mine long ago—not because I wanted to, but because circumstance forced me to surrender it along with my shame. And even after discarding all that, no one cared.

I only grew quieter, more alien even to myself. So tell me, who could take pride in the ruin I’ve made of myself? No one. Absolutely no one.

If I may... even if no one asked me to, I want to argue against that saying.

I want to speak for those who once held ambition. For those who once tried to love. For those whose souls were slowly killed by time, by circumstance, by a life that never offered a choice.

Human life has a pattern. A hidden thread that repeats itself in countless forms and faces—what I call the symbol of existence.

It isn’t mere coincidence, nor the work of free will, but a recurring mechanism—a cycle we unconsciously follow.

That pattern hides in the small choices we dismiss, or it looms large in tragedies that shake us to the core. And once you see it, you can almost predict where life intends to drag you.

Like a myth reborn again and again across ages, across tales, across countless souls. It takes shape in tragedy or hope, in rebirth or destruction.

No matter how modern the world becomes, the myth endures—woven into human stories, reminding us that we all live within the same recurring patterns.

Maybe the pain I feel today is but an echo of someone’s pain a century ago, and a shadow of the pain someone else will feel a century from now.

The same with writers. There’s always some inner instinct pushing them to revisit familiar themes—betrayal, loss, love stretched thin, death striking unannounced.

Writers unconsciously chase those bitter moments that wound the reader’s heart.

But what I’m speaking of is something far greater—something terrifying because it cannot be avoided. Fate itself. God.

A system of causality that cannot be bargained with. Something already written long before your eyes first opened. And within that decree, there is no protest. No negotiation.

It is not up for discussion, and you were never truly given a choice. Only a direction to follow, and the order to walk.

This is the true curse... a suffering you never asked for, not born of your mistakes.

A life scripted for you—unwanted, unchosen, unchangeable. It creates imbalance among humans: some are born drowning in fortune, others strangled by reality from the very first breath. From this, envy, resentment, and hatred take root.

And in the end, rebellion only drags you deeper into despair. You watch as the world mocks your struggle, as others claim the things you never even had the chance to dream of.

So no, not all humans will keep rebelling. There comes a time when rebellion ceases to be an option—when strength runs dry, and hope grows too weary to rise again.

At that point, a person feels small before an unchangeable reality. They shrink, bow down, and hide from a universe too vast, too cruel.

They begin to accept that maybe, from the very start, they were only meant to exist as part of the darkest side of someone else’s story.

When someone reaches that moment, life no longer feels like living. They stop wanting to be alive—and instead begin cursing life itself.

Instead of fighting for what others call “victory,” they start yearning for one thing only: 

"Freedom."

...

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.