On the Curse of Still Existing

People romanticize immortality like it’s some glittering prize. They see eternity as a luxury; endless time, endless chances. Cute.

If only they knew the truth... living too long is just carrying the same weight in different shapes.

Every century gives you new masks to wear, new trends to pretend to care about, new faces that swear they’re different until they fade like the rest. Existing becomes a habit, not a purpose. A reflex, not a choice.

Some nights, I swear the air feels thicker. Like the world is tired of spinning and I’m tired of standing on it.

But I keep going maybe out of spite, maybe out of boredom, maybe because I want to see what else this cursed life plans to throw at me.

Don’t mistake this for despair. It’s just honesty.

Living is a burden, yes. But burdens shape you. They sharpen your edges. They remind you that even monsters feel the weight of time.

And me?

I’ll keep walking through the centuries with the same nonchalant grin, carrying my burden like it’s part of the outfit.

If you feel it too, that heaviness that comes with simply existing, you’re not alone.

But don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not here to comfort you.

Just figured someone should say it out loud.