The Weight of Knowing

I do not dream of gentler worlds.
Reality does not kneel before desire;
it sharpens itself on the bones of expectation,
and teaches through silence what words refuse to confess.
People seek comfort in illusions—
soft walls built from borrowed beliefs.
But I have walked the corridors of truth barefoot,
and every step left blood.
I've learned:
to see is to suffer,
to understand is to lose the luxury of innocence.
Yet I choose clarity over comfort—
because comfort blinds,
and blindness is a slow death of the soul.
I have dissected my own mind like a scholar,
pulled apart the seams of my emotions,
questioned every "why" until the questions stared back.
Reality is not cruel—
it is merely indifferent.
And indifference, when embraced, becomes power.
Those who hide from truth live lighter lives, yes—
but they are carried, not standing.
I stand.
Even if the ground beneath me trembles,
even if my gaze unsettles the world.
For the woman who sees clearly
is not loved for her softness,
but feared for her understanding.