If there were an eighth deadly sin, it would be Oblivion — the willful smothering of empathy, a cold refusal to see another’s suffering even when it bleeds before your eyes. It festers in hearts that grow numb, in souls that turn away not from ignorance, but from the heavy inconvenience of compassion. Oblivion is not simple ignorance; it is a deliberate choosing of blindness, a snuffing out of shared humanity for the sake of untroubled sleep. Those who cradle this sin find comfort in forgetting, building walls so high around their conscience that no distant cry can breach them. And in that silence, something monstrous blooms, feeding on every pain left unacknowledged, growing fat on tragedies dismissed as “not my concern.”