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It's hard to accept, but The Corner portrays a truth that is as raw as it is undeniable. The miniseries doesn't just depict addiction and misery on the streets of Baltimore; it exposes a reality that, in one way or another, repeats itself across the world, even if many prefer to ignore it or look away.

Having grown up in a dangerous neighborhood marked by drugs in Latin America, I couldn't help but see myself in the story. Beyond Baltimore's cold climate, the experience is disturbingly similar: the corners, the violence, the routine of consumption. Every interaction, every hit, every fight on screen feels real-because it is. As Gary says in one of the most revealing moments: "The corner is everywhere."

The series forces us to ask uncomfortable questions: why would anyone choose to live like this? Don't they realize they're destroying themselves? The answer is more complex than it seems. Most of them do know, but drugs serve as anesthesia-a way to avoid thinking, to escape a reality that consumes them. This isn't about justifying their choices or romanticizing destroyed lives. The Corner doesn't do that either. Its purpose isn't to judge, but to confront us with a reality that exists right around the corner, while many of us get lost in trivial complaints in front of a screen.

And that's perhaps the most unsettling lesson: we're not so different. We all carry addictions that consume us, even if they take more acceptable forms-work, digital content, the constant need for distraction. Maybe human beings are, by nature, self-destructive, and our lives are nothing more than a constant struggle to escape cycles that-consciously or unconsciously-lead us toward ruin.

In this sense, The Corner is far more than a chronicle about drug addicts. It was David Simon's first major attempt at exploring the city and its fractured realities. He does it with brutal honesty: showing children condemned to repeat their parents' mistakes, families trapped in poverty, and a society that-through omission or indifference-allows these cycles to persist.

They didn't choose this life; the life chose them. Some were lost from the start, others dragged down by circumstance. Believing it all comes down to "working harder" or "waking up earlier" is a comfortable illusion for outsiders. The truth is, we never know where our circumstances will lead us: to a quiet home with a stable family, or to a corner where all that's left is praying to survive another day.

The Corner offers no easy answers, and that's where its power lies. It forces us to look at what we'd rather avoid, to recognize that misery isn't so far away, and that, in one way or another, we all carry a corner within us.

The Corner ends without catharsis.

No miracles.

We wish DeAndre would leave the corners, that Gary would find a job, that everything could change.

But we know it doesn't work that way.

Some, like Francine and Blue, make it out.

Most don't.

Life isn't black and white.

It's full of shades, of defeats, of repetition.

There aren't always happy endings.

There isn't always redemption.

And that's not failure.

It's simply life.

It's one of the most brutal episodes I've ever seen in a miniseries. Not just because of what it shows, but because of how it weaves together two paternal stories and mercilessly reveals how father and son -Gary and DeAndre- see the world and fatherhood.

Gary could have been a good father, maybe even an excellent one. He had the intelligence, the charisma, the ability to guide his son. But his addiction ruined it all. DeAndre, on the other hand, believes he's ready to face adulthood and the responsibility of raising a child, while still moving around the corners. But in that world, bringing a child into life can be even more dangerous than spending nights on a corner hustling.

DeAndre doesn't scare easily. We've seen him argue with referees without backing down, fight without hesitation, stare down the police. And yet, when the time comes to see his child born, he falls into absolute silence. He doesn't say a single word during the delivery. It's not that he doesn't want to... it's that he can't. He's not prepared for any of it. He doesn't know how to process it.

At that moment, his mother throws him a phrase like a dart: "If this doesn't get you sober, nothing will." It's painfully true. And yet, behind it lies something deeply disappointing: the haunting sense that this child, the son of DeAndre and Tyreka, may be condemned to repeat the same cycle of suffering that shaped his parents and grandparents, if he grows up in the same environment. That's the dichotomy: the purity and joy that a newborn brings, set against the shadow of an uncertain future, and the eternal question of whether we'll be ready to give them something better.

Meanwhile, Curt's story reaches its climax. After a friend dies of an overdose, he ends up in the hospital. The doctors tell him that if he stops shooting up, he could have more time. But his mind only circles back to the next hit. Because for him, "more time" means nothing. More time for what? To sit on the same corner? To keep watching everything slip away? For someone who feels they've already lost everything, time is not a promise... it's a sentence.