How many years will you continue to outrun yourself, stuffing the void within with the hollow luster of achievements that will dissolve the moment you draw your final breath? The destitute dream of gold, the wealthy dream of immortality, and only the few exhausted by an aimless war with fate thirst for stillness. We are the architects of our own prisons, where the walls are paved with ambition and the chains are forged from the fear of being "insufficient." We chase the ghosts of the future, oblivious to the fact that the present the only asset we truly possess is slipping through our fingers into ash. True serenity is not a consolation; it is an act of supreme cruelty toward the ego. It is the ruthless acknowledgment that all your frantic exertion is merely an attempt to silence the cry of your soul, which has long begged not for success, but for the simple right to exist without having to prove its value. Real life begins only when you finally stop lying to yourself that you are missing something essential to be whole. What specific fear compels you to choose the struggle over the peace every single morning? Year: January, 2024 Digital Art drawn in Procreate Size: 6000*9000 pixels