It is a dreadful thing to burn in silence. Society does not concern itself with such burnings, for they are not theatrical enough to be applauded, nor destructive enough to be condemned. They leave no ash, only elegance, an elegant suffering, neatly folded and tucked behind the eyes.
The tragedy, of course, is not in the burning itself. It is in the necessity of disguising it.
One does not simply combust. That would be far too honest. Instead, one learns to smolder beautifully. To bear the unbearable with grace. To exist in a constant state of emotional heat while maintaining the appearance of chilled composure. To ache with charm. To collapse tastefully.
I have known people who walk into rooms like smoke, thin, ungraspable, scented with something that hints at damage. And how society loves them. The world is terribly fond of ruins, especially when they’re well-dressed and quiet about their despair.
The light, too, is cruel. It does not ask if you are ready to be seen; it simply arrives. And in doing so, it reveals the very parts of you you’ve worked so hard to blur. That is the true cruelty of existence, not the pain itself, but the exposure of it.
In the end, to burn is not to be destroyed. It is to be remembered, quietly, terribly, exquisitely. And what could be more unbearable than that?
