In this era of white noise,
calm is not peace, but a painful acceptance
of the frenetic madness of everyday life.
A world spinning in dizzying desperation,
where the uproar is constant
and souls seek refuge in indifference.

This calm pains me,
not for what it hides, but for what it reveals:
a grim adaptation to the madness of crowds,
to the flickering screens that never sleep,
to cities that scream without voice,
to lives unfolding in a parade
of despair disguised as routine.
This calm is not serenity; it is resignation,
a hardened tolerance to the cacophony of the mundane,
to news that no longer shocks,
to crises as regular
as the seasons.
It is the dull ache of what has become normalized,
tragedy turned into statistic.
In the stillness of this calm, I hear
the heart-wrenching whisper of indifference,
the murmur of a world that has forgotten how to rise.
This imposed peace pains me,
this complicit silence weighs more
than the thunder of any revolution.
How, then, to find relief?
How to learn not to get used to it,
not to accept this peace that is not peace,
but a surrender to perpetual madness?
This calm pains me, for I do not wish to get used to it.
I do not want my spirit to mold
to the shape of this chaos,
nor my heart to beat to the rhythm
of this dehumanized frenzy.
I want each day to be a challenge to the silence,
a rebellion against the damned calm,
a reminder that, somewhere,
beneath the surface of resignation,
lies still the possibility
of a world that can, once more,

astonish us.
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