Riddle me this,

  What is it about death that turns people into hypocrites,

  What is it about death that makes the dead somehow immortal?

  Why does the world suddenly act like they care,

  Just because the body is cold, lifeless, a reminder of fate’s fickle hand?

  Why is it that just because I didn’t shed a tear or show signs of sadness,

  You think I'm wicked, heartless, some sort of sociopath?

  Let me tell you,

  I didn’t know this man,

  So why the hell should I weep?

  Why should my grief be the marker of my empathy,

  When I didn’t even know his name, his face,

  Until the moment of his death.

  Yeah, you’re all sitting there, crying and praying for an unfortunate fate,

  But let’s be real here,

  When he was alive,

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  None of you gave a damn.

  Not even a glance,

  Not a whisper in his direction,

  Not a nod of acknowledgment.

  You’re here now, wearing your sorrow like a badge of honor,

  But half of you didn’t even know this man existed,

  Until you heard the news that he was gone.

  Tell me, what’s his name?

  Where was he from, what did he love?

  What did he dream about, what did he fear?

  Does it make you uncomfortable to answer?

  Does it sting?

  Because you don’t know him,

  You don’t know anything,

  But here you are, acting like you’re saints,

  Like your mourning somehow makes you noble,

  Like your tears matter more than the people who actually knew him.

  Hypocrites.

  All of you.

  Weeping for a stranger,

  Putting on a show of sorrow,

  While you never bothered to understand the one you mourn for.

  So what if I didn’t cry?

  So what if I didn’t comfort the family of the deceased?

  Do you really think my tears would make a difference?

  Do you think my sorrow would bring him back?

  Do you think my sadness would erase their pain,

  Their grief?

  The answer is no.

  Neither would yours.

  He’s dead.

  Dead.

  And no amount of mourning or guilt-tripping will change that.

  So stop forcing this so-called concept of empathy on me,

  Don’t guilt-trip me with your "put yourself in their shoes" mantra,

  Because the thing about shoes is—

  Everyone has their own,

  Let them wear theirs.

  And if I die today,

  Don’t come with your damn Pharisee act.

  Don’t come crying for me,

  Because guess what?

  You didn’t know me,

  You won’t know me when I’m gone.

  And I sure as hell wouldn’t want you to pretend like you did.

  You’re all hypocrites,

  The whole damn lot of you.

  This charade, this performance—it’s for you.

  It’s so you can feel better about yourselves,

  So you can wash away your guilt,

  Your indifference.

  You’re not saints,

  And neither was he.

  So stop acting like you’ve been cast in some holy role.

  We’re all just playing at life,

  Pretending to care when it’s convenient,

  Wearing our black clothes,

  Observing our moments of silence,

  For a guy we never knew existed.

  My style?

  I’ll keep moving.

  Because life doesn’t stop for death,

  And I’ll be damned if I let the world make me feel guilty for that.