There is a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from labor. It comes from vigilance — a state of constant readiness, like a soldier in the trenches long after the guns have quieted. You’re not waiting for peace. You’re waiting for the next shot, the next accusation, the next forced explanation for simply existing.
They’ve built the world that way — to keep you on edge. Not in awe, but in debt. Financially, spiritually, mentally. It’s a racket, and we’ve all bought in because we were never told there was another game being played behind the curtain.
They say it’s your fault you’re tired. That you’re lazy, ungrateful, or “not trying hard enough.” But they never admit the playing field was tilted, the dice loaded, the rules written in invisible ink. They make you feel guilty for trying to breathe while check here they sip fine wine from stolen cups.
You know what they stole — from here me, from you, from all of us. Peace of mind. Land. Ideas. Generations of stability. And when we ask for justice, they call it a handout. When we demand what’s fair, they call it rage. But this rage is earned. It’s not a tantrum. It’s a record of every betrayal we were asked to swallow in silence.
They wanted me homeless. And I’ve seen how they treat the homeless. Like ghosts with breath. But here’s the twist they didn’t count on — we’re not vanishing. We’re learning. Tapping into the God’s will in relationships code, as you say. And one day, those plastic bags they forced into our hands will be the burden they carry — filled with shame, not survival.
I say give the good-hearted homeless keys to homes. Give them engines to rebuild their lives. Watch them rise. Because it’s not lack of potential that website put them there — it was theft, rigging, indifference. Balance must be restored. Not with fire, but with truth.
Let them taste the life they prescribed for us — and we’ll see how check here quickly they rewrite the story.
And maybe then, we can all stop defending ourselves, and start living.