Filling you up depleted me.
My focus, my energy, my heart, my soul. I willingly gave up all that made me who I was. Every spare part, every tiny space and every speck of light I gave up to you, to fill you up with all of that. And it depleted me. You feasted on it and depleted me. And as I became depleted, as I grew tired and weary, you began to resent me. You told me I was weak, soft, pathetic. When I reached out for a small piece from you, for some hope, for some kindness . . . you snarled and hissed at me from behind dark angry eyes. You found only faults in the shell of what was left of me.
Instead of giving back, you grabbed at the gaping holes and ripped and tore from me pieces of flesh hoping to steal more pieces. But the best of me I'd already given you but it was not enough . . . all of me was never enough for you and somehow it made you cruel, lacking any compassion and empathy . . . it made you resentful. Instead of taking what I gave you and cultivating and growing more of it, you clung it it greedily. You devoured it all. It filled you not with your own light, but with an insatiable hunger for the light that was in me; for the light that was me . . . so you continued to feed. You consumed every tiny sliver of what was good in me and left me gasping for air, struggling for solid ground and begging for the smallest show of humanity.
I was naked and exposed, scattered about the floor in all the disconnected pieces strewn about. I felt weak. I allowed you to see me this way. I had to because I needed you and I believed that in having the courage to show you my vulnerability you would trust that you could share yours with me as well. In this moment I needed you more than I'd ever needed anyone. I let you in and allowed you to see me this way because I trusted you, I loved you and I needed you. I needed you to start filling me back up. Just a little.
But here you stand before me, ripping and tearing still at the remaining strands of flesh clinging loosely to bones that have started to crumble. And all the while reminding me of everything that is wrong with me; reminding me of all the reasons and in all the ways that I am no good. But I gave you my "good." I gave you all of it.
And when there is no longer anything left to feast on, no more than a whisper or single strand of hair, will you ever remember that I was good. Will you remember how much you savored the taste of my soul when it was still intact? Will you remember that all of what was good in me, I gave to you, and when it was gone I stood there and let you continue to rip and tear from me. I let you feast hungrily on my spirit.
Will you ever know or have any memory that being good for you nearly destroyed me?
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Autonomy Is The Real Privilege
Good morning, freedom-seekers! Today we’re gonna be looking at autonomy. A strange word, I know; one many would probably look at blankly and run away from on sight. We’re gonna figure out what it actually means, consider how it’s achieved, and decipher just how deeply most of us are tangled up in dependence without realising it.
By That ‘Freedom’ Guy5 days ago in Humans
Nothing Is Free
In the small town of Greyhaven, people believed in luck. They spoke of it in cafés and on street corners, as if fortune drifted through the air like pollen, settling randomly on the deserving and undeserving alike. Some claimed they were blessed. Others blamed fate for their failures. But very few stopped to ask what luck truly cost. Daniel Mercer grew up hearing one phrase more than any other—from his father, from his teachers, from the worn posters on the walls of the local library: Nothing is free. As a child, Daniel dismissed it as an excuse adults used to justify hardship. As a young man, he would learn how true it really was. Daniel’s family had little money. His father worked long hours repairing machines at a textile factory, and his mother took sewing work home late into the night. Their house was small but clean, and though meals were simple, they were never without warmth. What Daniel lacked in comfort, he made up for in ambition. He dreamed of leaving Greyhaven, of building a life where money was no longer a constant worry. At school, Daniel was intelligent but impatient. He wanted results quickly—success without delay, reward without sacrifice. When others studied late into the night, Daniel searched for shortcuts. When teachers spoke of discipline, he rolled his eyes. He believed the world owed him something better. One evening, while walking home from work at a grocery store, Daniel noticed a new office had opened on Main Street. A polished sign read: Opportunities Unlimited. The windows glowed warmly, and inside, well-dressed people laughed and talked with confidence. Curious, Daniel stepped inside. A man named Victor greeted him. Victor was calm, charming, and spoke with certainty. He told Daniel about programs that helped young people succeed—investments, mentorships, fast tracks to wealth. “You don’t have to struggle like your parents,” Victor said gently. “Why suffer when others are enjoying life?” Daniel hesitated. “What’s the catch?” he asked. Victor smiled. “There is no catch. Just trust and commitment.” The next day, Daniel signed up. At first, everything seemed perfect. Daniel attended meetings where people shared stories of success—cars bought, debts erased, dreams fulfilled. He felt smarter, special, chosen. He quit his grocery job, convinced he was stepping into something greater. But slowly, the hidden costs appeared. Victor began asking for more time. Then more money. Daniel was told to distance himself from “negative influences,” including friends who questioned the program. When his parents expressed concern, Daniel snapped at them, accusing them of holding him back. He stopped visiting home as often, embarrassed by their small life. Months passed. Daniel worked harder than ever, but the promised rewards never fully arrived. Each time he fell short, Victor blamed him. “You didn’t believe enough,” he said. “You didn’t sacrifice enough.” Daniel borrowed money. He sold personal belongings. He lost friends. His health declined, his sleep grew restless, and anxiety became his constant companion. Still, he pushed on, convinced quitting would mean admitting failure. One rainy night, Daniel sat alone in his apartment, staring at unpaid bills. His phone buzzed with a message from Victor, urging him to invest more. Something inside Daniel finally cracked. He remembered his father’s hands—rough, scarred, honest. He remembered his mother sewing by lamplight, never complaining. They had never promised miracles, only effort. And they had always paid their debts, even when it hurt. Daniel realized then what he had been paying for all along—not with money alone, but with trust, dignity, and time he would never get back. The next morning, Daniel walked away from Opportunities Unlimited. The consequences were immediate and painful. He had no job, no savings, and strained relationships. Returning home was the hardest part. He expected anger or disappointment, but his parents welcomed him with quiet relief. No lectures. No accusations. Just a simple meal and a place to rest. Daniel started over. He took work wherever he could—construction sites, delivery routes, night shifts. The work was exhausting, but it was real. Every rupee he earned came from honest effort. Slowly, he rebuilt trust with friends and family. He enrolled in evening classes, studying skills that demanded patience and discipline. Progress was slow, but it was steady. Years later, Daniel stood outside a modest workshop of his own. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was his. He employed a handful of people from Greyhaven, paid fair wages, and treated them with respect. He knew the value of every tool, every hour, every sacrifice behind that business. One afternoon, a young man walked in, eyes bright with hunger for success. He spoke of easy money and fast opportunities. Daniel listened carefully, then smiled sadly. “Be careful,” Daniel said. “Nothing is free.” The young man frowned. “What do you mean?” Daniel looked around the workshop—the sweat-stained floor, the humming machines, the workers focused on their tasks. “Everything you gain costs something,” he replied. “Money costs time. Success costs effort. Even shortcuts have a price—you just don’t see it at first.” The young man nodded slowly and left, thoughtful. As the sun set over Greyhaven, Daniel locked up his workshop and headed home. His life was not perfect. He still worried sometimes. He still worked hard. But he understood something he once refused to believe. The world does not give without taking. Every gift demands payment—whether in work, integrity, patience, or loss. The wise are not those who avoid the price, but those who choose it carefully. Because in the end, nothing is free—but some things are worth paying for.
By The best writer 5 days ago in Humans
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