공공누리의 공공저작물 자유이용허락 표시제도에 따라 누구나 이용할 수 있습니다.
And that small thread—between your eyes and my ink—is the only birth I can still believe in.
But what if I am tired? What if this gift called life feels like a stone tied to my neck? They say: "You are lucky to be born." But luck is a lottery. And some tickets are just… pain.
I wish I had never been born. Not to die—death is still a something . I mean never to have existed at all. No shadow. No footprint. No name whispered at a funeral. Just the great, merciful blankness before the first cry.
This is a heavy, emotional theme—often explored in existential literature, poetry, or personal essays about depression, regret, or philosophical despair (similar to passages in Ecclesiastes or works by Emil Cioran).
Then no one would miss me. Then no one would blame themselves. Then the world would not have to carry my small, tired heart.
And that small thread—between your eyes and my ink—is the only birth I can still believe in.
But what if I am tired? What if this gift called life feels like a stone tied to my neck? They say: "You are lucky to be born." But luck is a lottery. And some tickets are just… pain.
I wish I had never been born. Not to die—death is still a something . I mean never to have existed at all. No shadow. No footprint. No name whispered at a funeral. Just the great, merciful blankness before the first cry.
This is a heavy, emotional theme—often explored in existential literature, poetry, or personal essays about depression, regret, or philosophical despair (similar to passages in Ecclesiastes or works by Emil Cioran).
Then no one would miss me. Then no one would blame themselves. Then the world would not have to carry my small, tired heart.