The Futility of Staying

Lately I’ve been wondering: what would be the most beautiful form of art?

Maybe it’s the kind born from disappearance.

An art that begins in abandonment, grows through heartbreak, and lingers in the shape of longing—haunting every moment, every breath.

Until it becomes a book. A song. A monument to what was once unbearable.

But where does it end?

I watch people around me moving through life, one day after another.

Work. Rest. Repeat.

Days become weeks, weeks blur into months, and suddenly ten years have passed—and all we’ve done is work, rest, and try to enjoy our weekends. The cycle loops endlessly.

So when someone asks, “What do you do for a living?”

I can’t help but feel how hollow that question is.

As if living were the only thing that mattered.

As if survival itself were enough to make meaning.

But what is the meaning of it all?

If what I’ve been looking for was never there—

If the happiness I envisioned never existed—

then what is the point of living a life that is repetitive, mundane, and quietly unraveling?

I kept searching for someone to truly love me.

To stay.

To see me completely and not flinch.

To hug me when I feel down.

To laugh with me when we watch something funny.

But now, no matter what I do, I feel only hollowness.

No matter how many dates I go on, nothing ignites.

No sparks. No chemistry. No joy.

It feels like I’m performing—putting on a face that says I care, that I feel, that I’m here.

But the truth is: when he left,

something in my sky dimmed forever.

I never truly believed he was going to stay.

Maybe the happiness he gave me was only meant to summon the worst devastation in me.

It’s that kind of stark beauty—

like seeing the blue planet suspended in the infinite void.

Even with oxygen in your lungs, the abyss begins to choke you.

It’s the kind of sublime that was never meant to be touched—

only witnessed from afar.

So devastatingly beautiful,

it leaves you wanting something you were never allowed to hold.

And now, it’s as if I’m just sitting beneath a quiet night,

watching the stars go out one by one—

each light in my constellation blinking away into darkness.

And I wonder...

would it be better to stop watching before they’re all gone?

Because I’ve never truly felt important.

Never felt like someone whose life demanded preservation.

So what is the point of living until the day my hair turns silver,

my face folds into time,

and even my memory of love fades?

Wouldn’t it make more sense to disappear

before my belief in love completely dies out?

To leave behind a version of me that never deteriorated—

always reaching, always yearning, always almost touching something beautiful?