​They say the old days were better

​

They say the old days were better.

I nod.

Then I wonder—

better for whom?

For the girl

who entered a stranger’s house

with henna on her hands

and fear in her throat?

Or for the boy

who was taught

that being a man meant

burying every tear

before it reached his eyes?

Tell me.

Which part was better?

The silence?

The obedience?

The loneliness?

Or the fact that nobody

was allowed to name them?

A girl spent her youth

learning how to endure.

A boy spent his youth

learning how not to feel.

One was told,

“sacrifice.”

The other was told,

“provide.”

Both were handed lives

they never chose.

Both called it duty.

Years passed.

The girl became a wife.

The boy became a husband.

Neither knew love.

Only expectations.

And expectations

are poor substitutes

for affection.

So they built a family

the same way prisoners

decorate their cells—

trying to make survival

look beautiful.

The saddest thing?

Not the cruelty.

Not the fights.

Not the disappointments.

The saddest thing

is that most wounds

were never intentional.

People were simply

passing down pain

they had inherited.

A father wounded his son

with the same words

that wounded him.

A mother taught fear

because fear

had kept her alive.

Generation after generation,

humans mistook scars

for wisdom.

And called it tradition.

Today is different.

Or maybe not.

Now people can choose.

Yet choice creates

its own confusion.

A hundred doors.

A thousand faces.

Endless possibilities.

Still the same loneliness.

Still the same fear.

People test each other.

Doubt each other.

Leave each other.

Use each other.

And call it freedom.

Back then

people stayed together

without love.

Today

people search for love

without staying together.

Different prisons.

Different walls.

The same hunger.

And then there are

the quiet ones.

The kind people.

The ones who forgive.

The ones who stay silent

to keep peace.

Life teaches them

a strange lesson.

That kindness attracts

both love

and predators.

That some people see

a gentle heart

and think,

“Here is someone

I can use.”

So they take.

And take.

And take.

Until the person

who once believed in goodness

begins to question

whether goodness exists at all.

Maybe that is the real tragedy.

Not heartbreak.

Not betrayal.

Not loneliness.

But the moment

a good soul

starts becoming suspicious

of the world.

Because pain

has convinced them

that kindness is weakness.

Years later,

an old woman

looks back.

An old man

looks back.

Both carrying lives

heavier than they imagined.

And suddenly

they say,

“The old days were better.”

Not because they were.

But because memory

is merciful.

It removes the screams.

Softens the bruises.

Erases the waiting.

And leaves behind

a golden light

that never truly existed.

The truth is simpler.

Every generation

is searching for the same thing.

A place to rest.

A person who stays.

A love that does not become duty.

A kindness that is not exploited.

A life that feels

less lonely than yesterday.

And perhaps

that is why hope survives.

Not because the world

has become better.

Not because the world

has become worse.

But because every human being,

whether in the past

or today,

wakes up believing

that somewhere,

someone,

some day,

will finally understand them.