The suffering in this world is too much.

It would be too much with or without me and unfortunately I'm here to witness it. To know that each second that passes is another second that someone, somewhere has spent suffering, alone — believing that because distance, denial or some other barrier prevents their story from being told, the world keeps turning without a hitch. And on the larger scale, it does. People don't care.

I do. My world has stopped turning.

I know that a fraction of people reading this have seen much more than me; I don't wish to compete.

But I've seen enough to know what real devastation looks like reflected on a face. I've heard enough to know what it sounds like echoing off their voice. Scars in the air reiterating what they have to relive every day.

And they have to. No amount of replaying it will ever cure their sorrow or restore what they've lost.

In a single moment, a life can be broken in ways that would take a god centuries to mend — and even then, nothing is promised. Reality meets flesh & soul, and flesh & soul yield through impossible amounts of pain.

I want to go back in time and hug them and tell them everything will be okay. I want some sort of crescendo to occur, at the end of which restitution will be made, rendering all the hurt in the world worth something. I want a guarantee that all that's lost here — people, lives, love — will be met again on the other side of life.

All of these. Fantastical wishes.

MyMonstersAreReal · F

I hear you. Every word of this feels heavy because it’s written from a place that knows pain isn’t abstract—it has faces, voices, and weight. You’re right that the world keeps moving, and that indifference can feel unbearable when your own world has stopped. But please know this: you are not alone in caring, and you are not alone in carrying this awareness.

What you wrote honors the suffering you’ve witnessed without trying to compete or explain it away, and that matters more than you might realize. The fact that you see it, that you ache for restitution even while knowing there are no guarantees, speaks to a depth of compassion that refuses to turn numb.

I don’t have answers either. I share those same impossible wishes—that there were a way to make it right, to undo what can’t be undone. All I can say is that your voice, your witnessing, and your refusal to look away mean something. And if it helps even a little, you don’t have to hold this alone. I’m here with you.