In the fog of human sentiment, where shadows lose their form

In the fog of human sentiment, where shadows lose their form, I see them drifting, those with weak hearts, cloaked in borrowed sorrow, Their essence, a barely heard whisper, lost in the cacophony of others' cries, They wander through life, a nameless mist, feeling for everyone but themselves. Their hearts, a sponge for every tear, every sigh, And yet, in their own reflection, they find an empty gaze, The thrill of their own essence, a distant and forgotten dream, Sacrificed on the altar of misguided empathy. Like specters, they float, neither here nor there, Their identities blurred by the weight of others' suffering, They weep for the world, but their own souls remain untouched, An unsung melody, a story left unwritten. In the mirror of introspection, they see only shadows, The light of self-awareness dimmed by the fog of sentiment, Each step, a drift, each breath, a borrowed sigh, They lose themselves in the labyrinth of others' pain. Oh, how I detest this self-imposed exile, This choice to fade into the background of existence, To be a ghost in one's own life, a mere echo of others' despair, Lost from the vibrant pulse of their own being. For life is a dance, a revolution of colors and sounds, And in the symphony of existence, each soul must find its own melody, To live, not as a shadow, but as a blazing star, To feel the thrill of their own essence, unburdened by the weight of borrowed sorrow. They should awaken from this melancholic slumber, To cast off the chains of weak sentiment, And embrace the fierce beauty of their own identity, To live fully, deeply, and intensely, in the light of their own truth.