i lie awake at night, haunted by the soft murmur of hope that whispers promises of change, yet always fades with the morning light. every new day arrives with the silent assurance of renewal, yet beneath its gentle facade lies the weight of unfulfilled dreams and persistent doubt. it is a promise made in the fragile moments between despair and desire—a promise that, more often than not, rings hollow.
in the quiet solitude of dawn, i watch the world stir with cautious optimism. the sunrise, a brief spectacle of light and color, offers a fleeting glimpse of possibility. but as the hours pass, the initial spark of hope is slowly smothered by the mundane grind of everyday life. the vibrant potential of tomorrow dwindles into a series of repetitive tasks and unmet expectations, leaving behind a lingering sense of loss.
each day, i grapple with the bittersweet reality that the future is both a beacon of promise and a canvas for disappointment. the idea of tomorrow fuels my weary heart, yet it is a constant reminder that nothing truly changes; the cycle continues, indifferent to my longing. the hollow promise of tomorrow is a delicate lie, a fragile hope that dissolves into the shadows of today, leaving me to wonder if the future is merely another echo of the past.
thoughts of a dying athiest 