If I had never been born, the rain would still fall on this rooftop—but no one would be listening. The rice would still grow in the terraced fields, but there would be no mouth to taste its sweetness. The world would spin, indifferent and whole, without the crack I left in it just by existing.
Then no one would miss me. Then no one would blame themselves. Then the world would not have to carry my small, tired heart.
And yet… I write this down. Which means some part of me still wants to be heard. Some part still hopes that by speaking the unspeakable wish, I might loosen its grip. Toi uoc Minh Chua Tung duoc Sinh Ra Pdf
And that small thread—between your eyes and my ink—is the only birth I can still believe in.
This is a heavy, emotional theme—often explored in existential literature, poetry, or personal essays about depression, regret, or philosophical despair (similar to passages in Ecclesiastes or works by Emil Cioran). If I had never been born, the rain
I was not asked. No one handed me a contract before the first cell split, before the first breath burned my lungs. I arrived like a guest at a party I never RSVP'd to, handed a name, a language, a country, a wound.
I wish I had never been born. Not to die—death is still a something . I mean never to have existed at all. No shadow. No footprint. No name whispered at a funeral. Just the great, merciful blankness before the first cry. Then no one would miss me
Maybe that is the cruelest irony: even the wish to have never been born requires being born to wish it.