The Worth

From childhood, I was given more than many— more chances, more shelter, more hands willing to hold me when I was too weak to stand. And yet, I failed— in corners of ambition, in rooms of expectation, in the quiet places where a man measures himself alone. Did I truly try my best, or is that only the softest lie I tell myself at night? Could I have climbed higher, run faster, become someone worth remembering? I could never be the sun that rose with warmth enough to place pride upon the tired faces that deserved it most. I could never be that song— the one sung softly by the trees, the green hymn of parks and mornings, beneath trembling sheets of leaves, where life still believes in beauty. Instead, I have often felt like a burden upon breathing itself— a weight tied to the ankle of humanity. I could not shape beauty. I could not hold love. I could not wander far enough through streets made of green paper, through forests of concrete, glass, and aluminium dreams. Tell me then— what am I good for? I could never be the son they deserved. I may never be the one they waited for. Years have passed. Let no one say they were not enough time. Three decades stand behind me now, silent as witnesses. And perhaps it is kinder this way— that after all this time, I simply learn how to disappear.