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.
Maybe that is the cruelest irony: even the wish to have never been born requires being born to wish it. Toi uoc Minh Chua Tung duoc Sinh Ra Pdf
So I sit here, between the PDF page and the pale light of morning, and I do not erase these words. Not because I have found an answer. But because somewhere, someone else will read this and think: "Oh. It’s not just me." I was not asked
Every morning, I wake into a debt I did not sign for. The debt of joy. The debt of gratitude. The debt of trying —because others tried for me. My mother’s labor. My father’s silence. My ancestors’ ghosts, watching from the altar, expecting me to continue their unfinished hope. Maybe that is the cruelest irony: even the
But what if I am tired? What if this gift called life feels like a stone tied to my neck? They say: "You are lucky to be born." But luck is a lottery. And some tickets are just… pain.
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).
And that small thread—between your eyes and my ink—is the only birth I can still believe in.