To make a better life for ourselves
To accept fault for our own unhappiness
To figure everything out on our own
These are the expectations.
It's a mountain with winds that pierce like knives
It's a forest with death draped on each branch
It's a beach with bodies crumpled in blood-soaked sand
The corpses of those who have already failed.
We'll join them soon, for no mortal is strong enough for this
Our effort wasted like the blood splattered on the path
Because in the end, nothing matters
And it never did.