From the moment you are born, the cycle, the system, has already begun shaping you without you even realizing it. It trims your wings before you ever learn how to use them, quietly molding you into someone you may never have chosen to become.
First, your parents. The way they were raised becomes your cycle too. If your parents grew up in a loving family, then you are one of the lucky ones. Your life will likely be smoother. Why? Nothing extraordinary just stability. Warm dinners at the same table. Arguments that end in apologies. Hugs that mean something. At the very least, when you reach a breaking point and feel like you can't go on anymore, they will try to understand you. Because that's how they were raised. And that's how you'll be raised. And one day, without even noticing, you'll pass the same warmth to your own children.
And the cycle repeats.
So what happens if you're one of the unlucky ones? The ones born from mistakes their parents refuse to admit. Parents who chase their own happiness without thinking about consequences. Who brings a life into this world only to abandon it, resent it, hurt it.
Some weren't wanted from the start. Some were aborted. Some became orphans. Strangely enough, that isn't always the worst fate. What's truly unfortunate are the ones who remain the ones who grow up inside abusive homes. And abuse isn't limited to bruises and broken bones. It lives in words. In silence. In manipulation. In the constant reminder that you were never enough.
Parents who broke apart before you were even born because your father refused to acknowledge you as his own. What does your mother feel? If she came from a loving family, maybe you'll be saved by your grandparents' kindness. Maybe you'll grow up surrounded by patience instead of resentment.
But what if her family is toxic too? What if love was never part of the equation? What do you become then? Another link in the chain. Another generation shaped by anger. Another batch of quiet damage disguised as normal.
The cycle continues, unnoticed by most. Some people see it but never say a word. Why? Because that's just how things are. The system has normalized it. "That's life." "It happens." "Move on." Easy words. Convenient words.
You came from a healthy, loving family? Damn, that's cool. Good for you.
You came from an abusive, toxic family and grew into a psychopath or sociopath? Becoming exactly what you hated as a child? Then boo. Meh. Not my fault. I don't even know you. Why would I care?
People only start caring when that person begins harming them. When the damage spills beyond the walls of that broken home and touches society. Then suddenly it's urgent. Then suddenly it matters. Naturally, that person is thrown into prison or handed a death sentence. Case closed. Order restored.
It's all normal.
No one bothers to dig deeper and ask why.
And what about the ones who shaped them into that monster? The ones who planted the seeds of violence, neglect, and hatred?
Nothing.
They didn't break the law.
Second, education. Yes, education.
Education itself isn't bad. Knowledge is powerful. Learning shapes civilizations. But the way people use it? That's where things start to twist.
The system rewards those who are academically intelligent. The ones who can memorize formulas, write structured essays, solve equations in minutes, and sit still for hours under fluorescent lights. They thrive in that environment. Gold stars. Honor rolls. Scholarships. Applause.
Good for them.
But what about the others?
What about the ones whose talents don't fit neatly inside a classroom?
The artists who see entire worlds in blank canvases. The writers whose minds overflow with stories but struggle to care about algebra. The singers whose voices can move hearts. The dancers who speak through movement. The ones who feel music in their bones. The ones who notice the smallest shift in someone's tone and immediately know something is wrong.
Empathy is a talent too.
After all, it's rare to find someone who can truly understand what you feel—who can sit beside you in silence and actually grasp the weight in your chest. That's extraordinary. Yet it's treated as something basic, something everyone is supposed to have. But how many people are truly empathetic? And more importantly, how many can act on it?
There are countless types of talents in this world. Creative, emotional, physical, intuitive. But only one is widely sought after.
INTELLIGENCE.
Not emotional intelligence. Not artistic intelligence. Not social intelligence.
Just the academic kind.
Instead of blooming in their own fields, many are forced to reshape themselves—to sit at desks, read textbooks that bore them, memorize information they will never use. Their sketches get shoved into drawers. Their lyrics stay unwritten. Their curiosity dulls.
Truly pitiful souls.
Forced into this world without choice, and from the moment they arrive, their freedom is quietly stripped away. They are molded into workers before they even understand what they want to become. Trained to chase grades. Then degrees. Then salaries.
Forced to work their entire lives just to sustain daily needs—rent, food, bills, survival. The cycle continues.
And this old man knew it.
He was one of the lucky ones.
Born into a healthy, loving, supportive family. Gifted with sharp intellect and relentless ambition. He never felt crushed by the weight of the system; he understood it. Played by its rules. Mastered it. While others struggled to keep up, he moved ahead effortlessly, climbing higher and higher until he stood above everyone else.
He rose smoothly to the top.
But once he reached that summit, once the applause quieted and the view became clear. He saw the other side of the world.
Its true face.
And it was darker than anyone below could ever imagine.
Afraid of being dragged down, he had unconsciously become one of them; the very type of person he once despised. One of those on top who crushes potential before it has a chance to bloom, who stifles talent to eliminate competition. Who enslaves others to serve their empire, offering only scraps of reward compared to the true worth of their labor. That's the cycle of life. The system perpetuates itself, quietly, relentlessly.
Even this old man, without fully realizing it, had become a part of the very cycle he had spent his life trying to outsmart. The predator and the prey, the teacher and the student, all tangled in the same unbreakable chain.
He slowly closed his eyes, a long, silent surrender.
The heart monitor's shrill beep cut through the stillness of the room. A chorus of alarms. Doctors and nurses rushed in, hands moving frantically over his chest, trying to coax life back into a body that had quietly given up. Machines beeped, pumps hissed, and fluorescent lights flickered above.
But it was too late.
"Patient time of death: 14:53."
A quiet statement of fact, cold and absolute. Like how life should be.
And outside, the city continued to shimmer, alive with lights and motion, completely unaware of a life and the legacy that had just slipped away.
"Another talent has fallen."
A transcendent being who watched from above muttered to himself expressionlessly.