Clueless Ink

We’re sitting in the middle of hell,

wondering about heaven, or worse.

And the worst?

To stay here, and try to make this place a little less cruel.

Not for someone else.

Just to quiet the noise in our own hearts,

to prove we’re not entirely selfish.

This hell numbs you.

It demands you forget how to be human.

And you wonder,

is this some twisted test of humanity?

Because here,

every other person carries a story of something inhumane.

And if they’re even half-aware,

they live in quiet fear of karma.

When something terrible happens to someone,

we feel it in our bones.

We know,

on this level of the game,

that was the draw.

It could’ve been us.

We,

the ones with time to think,

time for confusion,

we wait.

We pass time.

We adapt.

We live, half-numb and half-aware.

We breathe, even when it burns for others.

Until it’s our turn.

Hell isn’t people getting fried in oil.

There’s no fire waiting for your sins.

Hell is quieter than that.

It’s watching innocent lives disappear.

It’s hearing families cry for the ones they’ve lost.

It’s seeing people starve in silence.

And the worst part?

Being one of them.