The sad hills of Aripo

 In hills of Aripo, there was once a man who believed struggle was the mark of greatness. In his youth, he wore his hardships like medals, expecting the admiration of everyone as a mark of being someone. "Look how hard I does work," he would say, his voice tinged with pride and exhaustion. "No one suffers like me."

His wife and family urged him to rest. His friends invited him to laugh and be gentle with himself. But he refused. What was joy compared to the dignity of hard work? He mistook their concern for pity and doubled down, convinced that one day, his suffering would be vindicated by grand success for all to see.

Years passed. His children grew distant, wearied by his endless sighs. His friends stopped calling, tired of his martyrdom. Still, he clung to his narrative: "I will do for them. They don’t understand sacrifice and hard work."

By the time his hair turned gray, his achievements were few, but his burdens had multiplied. He had spent so long curating his struggles that they became his only companions after his dejected children left the household in the young adult years, ceasing to be associated with his displeasure. The weight he once carried for applause now sagged his shoulders in solitude.

On his last days, a neighbor asked, "Was it worth it?"

The old man hesitated. The silence answered for him.