Open Letter

To the broken:

I can’t tell you that everything will be perfect in the end. I can’t tell you that you won’t feel pain, because you will. You have to, as much as I wish you didn’t. Life has a way of making sure we never forget the price of peace.

The world reeks of chaos and dirt and disgust. Sometimes people do horrible things and the world does nothing; sometimes people do nice things and the world shoves them into the mud. It’s a messy, deranged place to live, and yet, and yet—

A good person I knew once said, “Cynicism is cowardly but naivety is blind.” I can’t be hopeful about humanity, but I can be hopeful about humans. I can be hopeful about you. Because despite the odds, despite the cells and nerves in your body that scream, there’s nothing left, absolutely nothing, there will always be something. A dying star, a warm hug, a handful of flowers. Something to remind you that living is a two-faced enigma—you’ll never escape the filth, but you’ll find rivers to wash the stench out.

It’s a tough journey. Unfair, perhaps. There are worse things than dying. Just let me ask: the prophets, were they right? The dead, do they know? And you, have you ever seen the night sky in the barren wasteland of Death Valley, where even the cruelest lands yield wonder?


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