The Art of Mind

“What a heartbreaking scene.” “Is it?” I asked myself while tears were flowing down my cheeks. They said the truth hurts, that's why I lied. I lied to them. I lied to myself. I painted smiles on my face like a mask I couldn’t take off. And now I wonder— Who am I without the lies? Who am I when no one is watching? Am I still the same broken child hiding behind grown-up eyes? They told me life gets better. But when? Where’s the finish line to all this pain I’ve been sprinting through? Why do some hearts get to heal while others learn to live with their wounds? I sit in silence, but my mind is loud. Screaming questions I’m too tired to answer. *What if I gave up today?* *Would anyone notice the silence in my noise?* Or will they just say: “He was always so quiet.” “He never said a word.” But I did. I whispered pain in my poetry. I screamed in silence through my tears. I carved my suffering in the corners of my notebooks. But they didn’t read me. They only read my grades. They only heard my “I’m okay.” But I’m not. I never was. Why does the world reward masks and punish truth? Why is it easier to say “I’m fine” than “I’m falling apart”? Why is it shameful to break when you’ve been strong for too long? They say scars are proof of survival. Then why do I still feel like I’m dying inside? Am I just being dramatic? Or am I finally being honest? They said everything happens for a reason. But what’s the reason for waking up each day feeling like a mistake that keeps repeating? Is it wrong to feel too much? To care too deeply? To love in silence because the world is too loud with judgment? I fell in love with a dream, and it betrayed me with reality. I trusted people, and they fed on my vulnerability. I tried to speak, but they turned my words into weapons. So now I keep quiet. I pretend. I survive. But surviving isn't the same as living. And I don't remember the last time I truly lived. Is this what life is? A cycle of pretending? A daily dose of numbness we swallow and call "strength"? I used to believe in light. I used to believe in God. But even prayers feel heavy now. Even faith feels like a distant memory. I ask, “Lord, are You still there?” “Did You forget I exist?” “Or are You testing how long a soul can break without shattering?” They told me to count my blessings. But how do I count what I can’t feel? How do I measure gratitude when my heart feels buried beneath layers of sorrow? Sometimes I envy the stars. They shine in darkness without asking why. They just do. But me? I question everything. Why am I here? Why was I born into a world that feels like a test I never studied for? Why is pain so familiar, like a friend who never leaves? I smile in pictures, but my eyes know the truth. They’ve seen nights of crying into pillows. They’ve seen mornings where I begged for a reason to stay. And still… I stay. Why? Is it hope? Is it guilt? Is it the fear that leaving would hurt those who never saw my pain? Or is it because deep down, I still believe… maybe, just maybe, there’s more to life than this. Maybe healing isn’t loud. Maybe it’s quiet. A whisper. A soft breath in the chaos. A fragile heartbeat still beating despite it all. Maybe surviving is brave. Maybe these tears are sacred. Maybe this poem is a prayer I didn’t know I was saying. So I ask again— “Is it a heartbreaking scene?” Yes. But maybe heartbreak means I still feel. And if I still feel, I’m still alive. And if I’m still alive, maybe… just maybe… there’s something worth waiting for. Even if I can’t see it now. Even if I still lie to myself sometimes. Even if the questions never stop. Because sometimes, asking “why” is the only way to remind yourself that you still care about the answer.