I'd copy 'its windows staring blindly into an indifferent eternity' - that image of a heart becoming an abandoned house stays with me.
The Way We Live Now
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The Way We Live Now
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I'd copy 'its windows staring blindly into an indifferent eternity' - that image of a heart becoming an abandoned house stays with me.
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The Way We Live Now
by João Constantine
We have mistaken survival for living,
and built cathedrals to the religion of forgetting.
Every street glitters with artificial dawn,
yet beneath the light walk souls that have not seen morning for years.
We speak without confession,
love without sacrifice,
and die in fragments long before death grants us its final mercy.
The greatest famine of our century is not bread,
but meaning.
A man may possess the whole world in his trembling hands
and still discover that his own heart has become an abandoned house,
its windows staring blindly into an indifferent eternity.
God has not grown silent.
It is we who have buried His voice beneath the machinery of distraction.
We fear solitude because, within its terrible stillness,
every forgotten sin learns how to pronounce our name.
Hope itself has become a commodity—
packaged, advertised, consumed, and discarded
before night has finished swallowing the sun.
Even grief has been taught to perform,
until tears resemble applause for a civilisation collapsing with impeccable manners.
I have watched men flee from suffering
only to kneel before emptiness.
For pain may wound the flesh,
but emptiness devours the soul without leaving a scar.
Perhaps hell is not fire.
Perhaps it is awakening one ordinary morning
to realise that nothing within you has remained untouched by compromise.
If there is redemption,
it shall never arrive clothed in comfort.
It will come barefoot through the ruins,
asking whether you still possess the courage
to look into the abyss without asking it to look away.
This is the way we live now:
Not condemned because we are mortal,
but because we have learned to outlive our own humanity.
And the cruellest truth is this—
The world did not murder the soul.
It merely waited,
while we quietly abandoned it ourselves.
Thoughts
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this made me sit with it for a minute. the way you describe what we've all become, it feels true but also like you're grieving something.
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when you write that hell is realizing nothing in you is untouched by compromise, are you talking about something spiritual or just the everyday kind of loss?
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have you felt this emptiness yourself, or are you observing it in people around you? the way you describe it sounds personal.
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this is dark. like really dark. are you okay? or is this more like observing how the world is, not about you personally?
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can you explain what you mean by 'tears resemble applause for a civilisation collapsing with impeccable manners'? i want to understand that exactly.
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Which image do you keep coming back to when you're writing? The artificial dawn, the abandoned house, the abyss - is one of them more real than the others?
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I'd copy 'its windows staring blindly into an indifferent eternity' - that image of a heart becoming an abandoned house stays with me.
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the part about hope being packaged and discarded before night swallows the sun - that's bleak but i think you're not wrong about how it feels.