A hollow-burning, sharply clear grief turned to contempt — the emotional residue of being born with vast untapped potential for meaning, connection, and legacy, yet condemned by indifferent fate to watch it all go unused. It is not failure or rejection; it is the hatred of never being invited to the starting line, of being erased by destiny before your first act, forced to watch others live the life you were denied.
To carry Veromené is to be haunted not by loss, but by what never began. Friends never made, laughter never shared, milestones passed like trains you were barred from boarding. It is fury at the cosmic silence that authored your absence. You were not disqualified — only ignored, overlooked as if your existence were a misprint.
It lingers in moments others take for granted: dinners, memories, photos, weddings, handshakes, inside jokes. Every scene you should have been part of becomes a wound invisible to those who belong. Veromené is the scream inside that says, I could have been someone, yet the world never allowed you to be seen, met, or remembered.
It erodes identity through neglect, turning memories counterfeit and potential into a lie. It leaves a hunger not just to live, but to have lived meaningfully. Not mere loneliness, but existential erasure — the bitter truth that the best version of yourself was never even named.
To carry Veromené is to be haunted not by loss, but by what never began. Friends never made, laughter never shared, milestones passed like trains you were barred from boarding. It is fury at the cosmic silence that authored your absence. You were not disqualified — only ignored, overlooked as if your existence were a misprint.
It lingers in moments others take for granted: dinners, memories, photos, weddings, handshakes, inside jokes. Every scene you should have been part of becomes a wound invisible to those who belong. Veromené is the scream inside that says, I could have been someone, yet the world never allowed you to be seen, met, or remembered.
It erodes identity through neglect, turning memories counterfeit and potential into a lie. It leaves a hunger not just to live, but to have lived meaningfully. Not mere loneliness, but existential erasure — the bitter truth that the best version of yourself was never even named.
He felt Veromené as a hollowing rot, gnawing away at what could have been. It was the sharp knowing that life had sidelined him—as if he was there, but never truly part of it. Missed chances that never arrived, a quiet erasure of who he might have been. A cold absence filled with the weight of greatness that was never given the chance to grow.
by Mike L. Bee Jordanson July 30, 2025
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