Time moves slowly in the village. Every morning, I wake up to the same view—stone walls, cracked roads, faces that never change. I feel trapped in a loop. I can’t move forward, and there’s nothing to go back to. The hours seem to grow heavier on purpose; every minute weighs on me like a burden. Everything here is quiet, but it’s not a peaceful silence—it’s a suffocating kind of loneliness.

Living in the village is like being left alone with my own shadow. Every dream I’ve failed to achieve echoes louder in this silence. I don’t even make wishes when I look at the stars anymore, because it feels like even they’ve turned their backs on me. Staying here feels like accepting that the light inside me has gone out.

The village reminds me of my past—not in a sweet, nostalgic way, but more like a constant confrontation with everything I’ve lost, everything I couldn’t do, and everything I fell short of. Every street, every stone seems to whisper, “You failed.” I feel like everything I once held in my heart has scattered like dust. What remains are only fragments. Fragments of hope, of love, of myself.

But the city… the city is like breathing. Even with all its noise and crowds, it makes you feel alive. Every corner holds an unknown, but inside every unknown, there’s a possibility. Being in the city means there are still roads to take, still things left to try. It might be hard, but there, you at least have the strength to dream. Because in the city, hope isn’t just a feeling—it’s a form of resistance.

The city tells me, “It’s not over yet.” It tells me, “You’re still here.” Maybe broken, maybe tired, but still standing. Maybe one day, with a single sentence, a step, a smile—everything can begin again. The city holds that possibility. That’s why, there, I don’t feel like a failure. I feel incomplete, yes—but I can still be whole.

The village whispers of the past, but the city screams of the future.
And I no longer want to exist in the silence of the past—I want to live in the noise of what’s still to come.