With No Crown and No Throne

I’m bothered by how people romanticize the idea that pain must be overcome and that time will take care of healing it.

That’s not true. It’s a damn lie, a complacent stupidity. A way to get comfortable and look the other way when someone else’s suffering becomes inconvenient.

There are wounds that don’t heal, don’t transform, and teach nothing. They just stay with you — sometimes forever. And that isn’t being broken. That’s being human.

There’s no redemption in this. No steps to check off on some recovery chart.

Feeling utterly broken when pain wraps around you like a scent is not regression. And sadness is not a system error that needs fixing.

Sometimes you live eternally in pain with no way out. And who the hell cares anymore. This isn’t a metaphor.

Alone. Hollow. Sad. In solitude. With the little that’s left. With what still hurts. With what no longer matters.

Eventually, you rise in the wreckage of your own existence and become a shadow. A king of sorrow — with no crown and no throne.

This piece was originally published in Spanish. You can read the original version here.