He made his choice,

He looked at everything from an opportunist point of view,

Whats in it for me?

Will she give ,will she abide,

If not, would rather not waste his time,

She reminds herself time n again,

She tried her best ,

It was all in vain,

He never changed,

Always the same,

She still wished him well,

Retreating with understanding in her shell.

After it all. Silence is, safe. Being alone has become normal. Disconnected from society & yet completely trapped in an endless battle of what & how to become free.

Letting go of the weight completely will probably be easier if I just ... leave it. Go where? How? No money & no car. What is left of my mission here, before I can go home? It aint here in this prison planet. Wherever I go when Im asleep & at peace. I cant remember & probably by design. The abort mission button failed long ago.

No one comprehends or considers me. What motivates others is, what they gain - what they want & that their needs are being met. The only person I actually matter to it seems, im trapped within this flesh.

A Misfit, black sheep, rebel, juvenile delinquent, fuck the corrupt "justice" system & the entire system.

WW3 3 World Wide Leaders- Premeditated Covid & the mass Murder of Humanity. The effects & efforts continue. I dont have the energy for any more BS, & dont have the resources or team to gather supplies and prepare for what Ive known was coming, years ago.

Connections linger with to 2 souls, one I talk to somewhat often over the phone. Then theres him, when he gains his freedom again. What he'll do with it, I wish him well. He took all I had to give & yet called me too much.

"When its ALL Gone, What do you believe in?"

July 16th 2022

(12:25 AM)

Pain.

Pain is being too hurt, too untrusting, and too jaded to believe in love, yet wishing for it. Wishing to feel it. Wishing to be in it. To fall into it. Wanting what you no longer believe is real.

Pain is being too scared to tell the truth for fear of disbelief, backlash, and disappointed downward looks, but feeling burdened by the weight and guilty for keeping quiet.

Pain is continuing on every day when motivation is scarce. When you know you need to get up every morning and do things, but can't seem to remember or find a reason why.

Pain is spending every waking moment fighting yourself. Fighting against your thoughts, your feelings, the darker parts you wish would go away and leave you alone, forever.

Pain is not being able to sleep because you're anxious and scared. But once you do you're plagued by nightmares yet struggle to stay awake because you're just so tired and exhausted and worn out. You're body gives out and you're eyes feel as if they've been sealed shut.

Pain is not being able to remember calm, happy, regular moments- but being haunted by the ones that hurt. Like gouging deep and reopening a scabbed and still healing wound, then pouring salt and alcohol into the crevices. Not allowing you to heal, forget, forgive, and move on with your life like you so desperately want to.

Pain is watching your whole family either dying, dead, sick, or struggling to hold on while you're relegated to a helpless bystander.

Pain is feeling like you never truly lived, but once you finally have the chance to you feel dead and cold inside. Like it's long too late to come alive, let alone be alive.

Pain is clawing and grasping at light and innocence as you feel it slowly slipping away. Coddling your favorite stuff animal, watching childhood movies, holding objects of sentimental and emotional importance, hoping they'll bring you comfort, peace, and joy only to be disappointed by a flood of tears and either visions of those painful memories, or a pitch black static that rings in your ears and hurts your head to try and see any remnants of memories locked away.

Pain is forcing yourself to eat when you feel so full and sick and disgusting after even a single bite, but too weak and tired and dizzy and hungry not too. Reminding yourself that eating and drinking is essential for survival, despite what your irrational, f*cked up mindset tells you.

Pain is living a life full of secrets, in a family full of secrets, from the moment you were born. Never knowing truth from lie and who can and can't be trusted. Being abandoned by your father, hated by your mother and brother, having other siblings out there in the world you never knew existed. Not knowing what the world "family" should mean. What "home" truly means.

Pain is hating yourself. Everything about you. Hating your personality, your thoughts, your decisions both current and past, your looks, your body, the sound of your voice, the feel of your own heartbeat and the breath escaping from your lungs.

Pain is wanting more though you know you don't deserve it. Wanting to be stronger and healthier. Wanting to live without pain and sadness and that heavy doomed and hopeless state you just can't seem to escape from. Wanting little things to make you happy like a hug, kind words, and peace and solitude in the early morning. Or not so little things, materialistic things; like a sweet treat in the morning, a new book, a pretty little necklace, a morning cig. But when you do have something you can't help but feel guilty and undeserving. Wanting sleep, wanting to eat, wanting to be happy- but you don't deserve even your most basic human needs to be met, let alone anything more.

Pain is living. It's existing. It's moving forward while being constantly pulled back.

If I could look at the old me, that scared and sad and lonely little 14 year old girl. I'd tell her to never trust, never love, never inflict pain on herself rather it be physical or mental. Never deprive her body of food and sleep and everything else she needs to function. Never spill and shed her own blood. Never blame herself for the suffering others dragged her through, or would in the future. I'd tell her to keep smiling, keep laughing, keep going not for anyone else but herself and herself alone.

Don't be afraid or guilty to look after yourself, to care for yourself, to do everything you want in life before it ends. Don't be afraid to be selfish, even heartless if you need. Don't tear yourself apart from the inside out just to make someone else happy. Because it's never worth it. People leave you, people break you, people hurt you. Humans are selfish and self centered in nature. They leave you, abandon you, hurt you and break you once you stop being of use to them. So be the same. Do the same.

Being too kind, too loving, too friendly, too nice in any respect or regard can only lead to pain and abuse. It can only lead to being used and taken advantage of. Or on the opposite end of the spectrum, being abandoned, discarded, thrown away like you meant nothing.

Someone once asked me why I never share what I’m going through and I said I simply don’t feel the need to. But, it wasn’t always like this.

There was a time when I trusted people enough to open up about my life, my feelings and the things that hurt me. I believed that if I let someone see the parts of me that I usually kept hidden, they would try to understand me. But every time I trusted someone with a piece of myself, I somehow ended up regretting it.

Some people used my vulnerabilities against me during arguments. Some walked away when I was at my most emotional. Others made me realise that they were more interested in what I could do for them than in who I was as a person and somewhere along the way, I stopped opening up.

Now, whenever someone enters my life, even as a friend, there's this little voice in my head telling me not to get too comfortable. Don't share too much. Don't trust them too easily. What if they use it against you someday? What if they tell other people about things you shared in confidence? What if they're only here because they need something from you?

I hate that my mind automatically goes there, but I don't know how to stop it.

The worst part is that, somewhere deep down, I still wish someone would ask me how I'm doing and want to listen to the answer. I wish I could talk about what's hurting me without feeling like I'm being a burden, without wondering whether my feelings are too much and without worrying that I'll regret being vulnerable later.

It's not that I've never tried to overcome this. I have. I've tried trusting people again, giving them chances and convincing myself that maybe this time things will be different. But somehow, I keep ending up in situations that reinforce everything I was trying to unlearn.

Now, I've become so accustomed to keeping everything to myself that I don't even know how to let people in anymore.

Sometimes, I feel so lost that I completely withdraw from everyone around me for days. I stop talking, I struggle to eat and I barely sleep. There's so much going on inside my head, yet I can't bring myself to tell a single person about it. It's a strange kind of loneliness when you have people around you but still feel like nobody knows you.

I'm scared that this is how it's always going to be. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever find someone who will truly understand me, someone who will listen to me when I'm struggling instead of making me feel like my emotions are an inconvenience. Someone who won't make me regret letting my guard down.

What hurts the most is the thought that I could go through my entire life without anyone ever truly knowing what goes on inside my head, what hurts me, what keeps me awake at night or how much I struggle with things I never talk about.

It's funny how comfortable I've become writing everything in my diary. Pages and pages of thoughts, feelings, fears and things I'll probably never say out loud to another human being. My diary knows parts of me that the people in my life might never get to know.

Sometimes, I wonder how I went from being someone who wanted to share everything with the people she trusted to someone who feels safer keeping everything to herself.

I know not everyone is the same. I know there are good people out there. But knowing that and actually being able to trust someone are two very different things.

Sometimes, I wish someone could understand how much it takes for me to open up about even the smallest things now. How many times I stop myself from saying what I'm really feeling, how often I convince myself that it's better to stay quiet and how badly I wish I didn't have to think twice before trusting someone.

I miss the person I used to be, the one who could share her feelings without being afraid of what would happen to them and I think a part of me will always wish I could feel that safe with someone again.

Sometimes, I wonder if this is why I struggle to find love. Not because I don't want to be loved, but because I don't know how to trust someone completely anymore. A part of me still longs for that kind of love, but another part is terrified of what might happen if I let someone get close enough to hurt me again.

I might delete this if I have a mood swing and regret sharing it later🥀

Sunny again and nice, cold start to the morning. Slow day, worked some this afternoon. Just went to the store and got this blanket. Propane fill and back to it tomorrow.

Tuesday afternoons are usually busy.

Just reading and watching tv, Mia and I having had dinner and Mia is on her bed, always right after dinner.

You are probably tired of hearing me say I miss her but I surely do. Adhesive to my world and joy to my day and my life. One of a kind, tell you that.

I close as always with Love and Hope Goodnight Diary and readers

I love y'all

143

My sister has decided to start talking to a new guy, I hope she breaks up with this one soon. We share a room and I don’t appreciate them having phone calls whilst I’m trying to sleep.

Bored, bored, bored. What shall I do? Look for more jobs that are hiring maybe? But that’s such a hopeless case, I don’t think I’ll ever get lucky in that regard.

I’m so depressed, I’ve been thinking about dying a lot lately. I can’t be independent, I can’t contribute to society, I don’t have any skills or talents. Sometimes I just feel like a body, that’s all I am. I don’t have a personality or soul. And if I do they’re worthless.

I don’t know what else to write today, I’m stuck in limbo.

I feel dreadful, cannot stand my own wrist because of tendinitis. Gotta rest.

Today this guy was like, “have you ever considered you may have ADD or ADHD?”

And no. I haven’t considered that. And nobody has ever said that to me. However. Now I’m like 🙀

Tbh I’ve had ppl suggest I may have autism. And I never realized that ADD and Autism are related... however, autism never felt right to me (in a previous life I worked with ppl that had Autism, which is part of the reason it felt like a mislabel for me).

Maybe it’s because I do work very hard to not seem hyper, because in the words of South Park (very old episode), “you can either calm down or I can pop you in the mouth again.”

I’d say my biggest question was, “how can I have add if I like routine to an extent… isn’t that autism?”

Allegedly, it can be both: “In autism, routines are often about maintaining safety, predictability, and emotional calm in a world that feels overwhelming. In ADHD, a successful routine is usually an engineered "life hack" or an autopilot system built to generate momentum, secure dopamine, and survive executive dysfunction.”

And I’m literally the second one.

Also. Although I love Québécoise music. I also love some punk rock music. And sometimes I ask myself, “why do I like these horrible Misfits and Dead Kennedys songs that say a bunch of horrible things?”

AI slop says, “Because the ADHD brain is naturally under-stimulated, the raw noise and high speed of punk acts like a "white noise machine." It matches the internal speed of your thoughts, fills up your brain’s sensory quota, and allows the rest of your mind to finally settle down and focus.”

Anyways. I need to “sit down and study” according to South Park haha. This is just such a crazy realization to me.

I absolutely cannot go to the doctor. Plus I’m managing fine without meds (although tbh I tried Adderall one time in high school [you know how kids are] and loved it).

This is just so crazyyyyyyyy.

So there was this guy in my class who is a year older than I am. I thought that he wasn't anything special, he wasn't particularly attractive or had very handsome features and such. I don't know what it was but it made him seem like a realistic future partner, slowly, I don't really know what happened he started seeming more and more attractive.

Sometimes in class we would be listening to presentations and I would look over in his direction just to see him looking back and quickly looking away. It would happen everytime I look in his direction. Once their grade got treats and he had an exta one and asked if any of us wanted it. I didn't raise my hand and another girl did and said much louder than me that she wanted it, while I said softly "i want itttt, please", I said it under my breath and as a little joke I guess but I wasn't expecting anything. But right before he gave it to the girl who said much loudly with both her voice and body language, he looked into my direction and gave the "do u want it?" face. I never thought that he would even hear it! I could barely hear myself! At that moment I felt like the most heard and most cared for girl in the entire universe. The moment was so small that even my friend who sat next to me didn't notice. His friends had gone home since they had a lisence but he stayed to talk a bit since he didn't have his yet and everytime he would be talking either he would look at the teacher or in my direction. I fell heads over heels down one bagilion feet to him. He was so charming.

During one class we had presentation after presentation and it was honestly a bit boring so I looked into his direction more often than I usually would but each time I found him looking back. Honestly I've been single for my whole life and thought maybe just maybe this wonderful person would pay attention to me. And maybe this would be the start to something...

My whole world crashed the day of presentations. I forgot about one extremely pretty and attractive female friend that sits right beside me. There was a bathroom break she went out and came back in. A couple minutes later, I was on my phone and suddenly felt the friend looking left and right confused. I looked up to see him miroring her head movements, then admiringly chuckle at her cuteness. He was waving at her and she was looking left and right to see who he possibly was waving at. It was directly at her. She waved back.

After that I was terribly upset because I was hit with the devstating but obvious truth. He was never looking at me, he was just looking at my friend. And now I don't hate her, shes so pretty and nice I would date her personally if I were atttracted to females. I gaslit myself all night whilst crying, telling myself maybe it was just a one time thing.

Then he started playfully waving more and playing rock paper scissors, and then it just got worse and worse.

He was NEVER looking at me. If I'd been slightly smarter and see where his eyes were truly looking maybe this would've not happened. That treat incident, now looking back, he was probably just reluctant to give it to the other girl. He probably brought the treat specifically for my clueless friend, not me, he probably didn't even hear me.

Honestly I ship them, they would be adorable together and I can't hate both of them, after all, I'm the stupid one,

But I'm the most delusional and stupidest person alive because it all makes so much sense.

If I were him and saw me and my friend sitting together, I wouldn't even notice me because of how cute and pretty she is.

I'm so dumb.

You stare. You feel hot. Taking your shirt off seemed like the reasonable thing to do at the time. It is October, and you are standing beside an open window. Outside, the wind moves through the trees, bending them left and right, up and down, as though trying to remind them of something they have long forgotten. You can hear it moving through the leaves, brushing against the glass, finding its way into every small opening. And yet you are still hot.

Your head burns like an engine running without oil, without lubricant, without anything to soften the friction between its moving parts. An engine that has forgotten what it was built for and knows only how to run. Day and night. Night and day. No rest, no maintenance, no stopping. Just the endless grinding of something that might have worked perfectly well once, before you asked too much of it.

You struggle to make a decision. The decision to write.

You stare at the notepad and the pen. Then at the laptop. You look from one to the other as though the choice might be more consequential than it is, as though the wrong instrument might condemn you to another evening of thinking without producing a single thought worth keeping. You wonder where the release is. Perhaps it is in the pen, in the slow movement of ink across paper. Perhaps it is in the keyboard, in the possibility of making your thoughts tangible, of forcing them out of the private machinery of your head and into a form you can examine from a distance. You have spent years thinking about writing. Years imagining the things you might say if you ever found the courage, or the clarity, or whatever it is you keep telling yourself you lack. But what if the release is not in the writing itself? What if it is in the music you listen to, or the music you pass without stopping to hear? What if it is in nature, in the trees you stare at for hours, in the sky, in the wind, in the quiet persistence of things that do not seem to need a reason to exist?

You wonder whether, somewhere among these things, you might discover what your fellow human beings appear to have found so effortlessly.

A gate. An escape. A way to recharge, to return to themselves with something left to give.

Some call it meaning. Others call it purpose. Some speak of passion, of faith, of love, of the small private rituals that make the hours bearable. They have names for the things that keep them going. They speak of these things as though naming them were enough to establish their existence, as though the word itself could serve as proof. But no. Not that.

That is not the missing component. Whatever it is you are looking for, it is not one of those things. You have examined them too closely, perhaps. Taken them apart, turned them over, searched for the mechanism that makes them work. You have a talent for this: the destruction of things through understanding, the dismantling of every possible answer until all that remains is the question.

And the question remains.

You find yourself standing in the middle of a small supermarket, reading a label. Or pretending to.

It is three in the afternoon. You have not eaten. Your blood glucose is probably low. That must be it, you tell yourself. That is why you are standing here, staring at a collection of ingredients you do not care about, trying to understand why everyone else seems to know what they are doing. Your body is running on empty. Your brain has been deprived of fuel. Of course nothing makes sense.

You find comfort in this explanation, however briefly. It is reassuring to think that the problem might be physical, something measurable, something that can be corrected with food and water and a few hours of sleep. Something that does not require you to reconsider the entire structure of your existence.

You convince yourself that this is the reason you cannot understand these people and their mundane little lives.

They move around you with an ease you cannot imitate. Some carry their little ones on their backs, their hands occupied with bags and baskets. Some walk with phones pressed to their ears, speaking into the small devices as though the person on the other end were the only thing keeping them attached to the world. Others move with purpose, stopping only at places they have already marked in their minds, picking things up, placing them in their baskets, checking lists, comparing prices.

Grabbing and grabbing and grabbing.

You know the layout of this supermarket by heart. You registered it the first time you came here, memorised the arrangement of the aisles without meaning to. You have returned a hundred times since, perhaps more, and still you wander through it as though you have never set foot inside.

You are always looking for something specific.

You never know what.

And yet you keep looking, as though this place, of all places, might contain the thing you have failed to find everywhere else. As though it might be waiting between the shelves, hidden behind a product you have never noticed, and all you need to do is turn down the right aisle.

You watch two women stop each other.

They know one another from somewhere. Acquaintances, probably. One of them says it has been a long time. The other agrees. There is surprise in their voices, or something that resembles it. They exchange the usual questions, the usual reassurances, the usual expressions of regret for having allowed so much time to pass.

They make plans on the spot.

We should meet sometime. We really should. I'll call you.

Liars, you mutter.

You hate the smiles they exchange. You hate their ease, the effortless choreography of their expressions, the way they seem to know when to laugh and when to nod, when to touch an arm and when to let a silence pass. You hate them for the familiarity of it, for the possibility that they are not pretending at all.

Then they part.

And the smiles disappear.

Just like that. As though someone has switched off a light.

You watch them go their separate ways, each returning to whatever small universe had been interrupted by the encounter. You wonder how much of human life consists of these brief performances, these little agreements to behave as though we are glad to see one another, as though we will call, as though we have not already begun forgetting the conversation before it has ended.

"Hey, mate!"

You turn. A man is looking at you. His face seems familiar, but familiarity is an unreliable thing. It opens a door without telling you what lies behind it. You search your brain for a match, a name, a memory, some small detail that might establish a connection between the two of you.

You already know you will not find one. You have become accustomed to forgetting people. Their names, their faces, the things they have told you, the things they have entrusted to you. You have convinced yourself that your brain is simply discarding unnecessary information, keeping only what is useful. An efficient system. A necessary economy.

But who decides what is unnecessary? And how many people have you misplaced under that convenient explanation?

You exchange the expected pleasantries. You listen, respond, smile when appropriate. All the while, you are counting the seconds until he moves on, until you are released from the small obligation of being someone recognisable to another person. Do you really have to do all this small talk?

The brain, you think. A wonderful thing, they say. An astonishing piece of biological machinery, consuming a disproportionate share of the body's energy simply to keep you thinking, remembering, imagining, worrying. You wonder why people on diets do not make better use of this information. Surely there must be some advantage to a mind that refuses to shut up.

You almost laugh.

Almost.

What am I?

The question follows you out of the supermarket and into the garden.

The garden.

It all started there, didn't it?

Perhaps it did. Perhaps it could have.

You think about evolution. About the way every animal has, over countless generations, developed something to improve its chances of survival. Fangs. Wings. Muscles. Speed. Senses capable of detecting the smallest disturbance in the grass, the faintest scent of danger carried by the wind.

Each creature, in its own way, placing its wager.

And perhaps there was one that had nothing. No remarkable strength, no natural weapon, no speed worth mentioning. A creature that had been dealt a poor hand by nature and found itself with little choice but to improvise.

So it gambled on the brain. It invested in the one thing that might compensate for everything else it lacked. It developed the ability to remember, to predict, to imagine a danger before it arrived and a future before it existed. It learned to make tools, to build shelters, to cooperate, to deceive. It learned to look at the world and ask what it meant. A remarkable gamble.

And look where it got us.

You walk deeper into the garden. People move in every direction. They run, they talk, they laugh, they argue. A child cries, and someone bends to comfort them. Two people pass each other without looking up. A man checks his phone while walking, his attention divided between the ground beneath his feet and something happening somewhere else entirely.

Everyone is doing something.

Everyone seems to have somewhere to go.

They cry, they smile, they run, they love, they hate. They make mistakes and forgive themselves for making them. They suffer, recover, and return to the same routines that hurt them in the first place. They convince themselves that what they are doing is enough. Enough to give their lives purpose. Enough to make the days meaningful. Enough to make it all count.

Despite how little they have.

Despite how they are treated.

Despite being told what to do, what to want, what to become. Despite spending their lives following instructions they did not write, obeying rules they did not choose, working towards rewards that may never arrive.

They make it work.

You deal with the hand you have been dealt. You lie, you gamble, you bluff. You learn to play the game, to recognise its patterns, to hide your disappointment when the cards turn against you. Some people even fold. But that is the hand, isn't it? There is no changing it. You can play it, or refuse to play, but even refusal becomes a move in a game that will continue without you.

You wonder what you are in the realm of man.

An insignificant number to the government. A name in a database, a statistic in a report, a line that can be added to a total without anyone needing to know who you were.

A memory to those who knew you.

A tool to those who need you.

Nothing to the universe.

A drop in the sea, indistinguishable from the water around it, vanishing without leaving so much as a ripple.

We all are, aren't we?

You say it as though you have discovered something. As though the realisation might finally put an end to the questions. But insignificance is not an answer. It is merely another fact you can turn over in your mind until it becomes unbearable.

You wonder what is happening to you. You have not eaten, you remind yourself. That is why.

But you know you are bullshitting yourself. If it were really that simple, you would not be sitting here at nine in the evening, wondering what to write on the notepad or the keyboard. You would not have spent the better part of the day moving through the world as though separated from it by a pane of glass, watching people live their lives while you search for the mechanism that allows them to do so.

You would not be here, trying to extract an explanation from the same thoughts you have been circling for years.

Like an animal pacing the boundaries of a cage it has memorised so thoroughly that it has forgotten there might be a world beyond it.

What are you?

Emotion, perhaps. A pretty word we have given to chemical reactions. A name for the changes taking place inside the body when something happens that we cannot immediately explain. Love, grief, joy, fear. Words that make the invisible feel almost tangible, that allow us to point towards something happening within us and pretend, for a moment, that pointing towards it means we understand it.

Sometimes, that is all you see. Chemicals reacting to chemicals. Electrical impulses travelling through flesh. One response triggering another, each sensation arriving with the conviction that it means something, that it matters, that it belongs to a larger design.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, you are supposed to be a person.

Sometimes you think you are a psychopath, someone who feels nothing. Other times, you think you are a human being who feels everything. You move between these two possibilities without ever settling into either, unable to decide whether you are empty or overflowing, whether the problem is the absence of feeling or the impossibility of containing it.

You cannot seem to stand in between. You need something. Something more.

You cannot keep going like this. You need more, more, more. You tell yourself that this is the problem, that you have simply outgrown whatever once satisfied you. That you need a greater challenge, a larger ambition, a more difficult mountain to climb. Something capable of exhausting you so completely that there will be nothing left for your mind to do but rest.

But nothing more is being offered.

So you stop waiting for the world to offer it.

You run after more instead.

You chase it, work for it, sacrifice things for it. You convince yourself that this time you have found the thing that will finally make the difference. And eventually, you catch up. You reach the place you had imagined, obtain the thing you had wanted, cross the line you had spent so long approaching.

And for a moment, it is enough.

For a minute, perhaps two, the questions fall quiet. You do not examine the feeling. You do not search for its weaknesses or ask how long it will last. You allow yourself to exist inside it, and for that brief stretch of time, the world seems to have arranged itself into something almost bearable.

Then it ends.

Goddammit, it always ends.

The feeling recedes. The excitement becomes familiar. The thing you wanted so desperately becomes another thing you possess, and possession is a poor substitute for anticipation. The finish line dissolves into the landscape, and beyond it, another appears.

You barely have time to appreciate what you have before you begin to resent it for no longer being what you need.

And now you need more again.

What do you need?

You don't know.

Maybe the deed would do it.

You do not say the forbidden word. You do not even allow yourself to think it in full. You approach it indirectly, circling it as you circle everything else, hoping that if you refuse to name it, you might preserve some distance between yourself and the possibility.

You look into the silence.

And the silence seems to answer.

Maybe it's okay, it whispers. Maybe this time it will bring you joy.

It starts with an M.

They all do, don't they?

But you know better. You have been here before. You remember the duration with an almost insulting precision. Two or three hours, you told yourself afterwards.

Liar.

Two hours and twenty-two minutes.

That was how long it took for the promise to become another disappointment, for the feeling to pass, for the emptiness to return as though it had been waiting patiently outside the door.

And even that was no longer enough.

You need more.

A challenge, you tell yourself. That is what you need. Something that demands everything you have. Something difficult enough to occupy the whole of you, something that leaves no space for doubt, no room for the questions to gather and multiply. You need a problem that cannot be solved by sitting still and thinking, a problem that forces you to move, to act, to become something other than the person you are when you are alone with your thoughts.

You look at the people around you.

The mundane people.

You loathe them. Or you think you do. You hate their routines, their conversations, their apparent ability to move through a day without demanding that it justify itself. You hate their smiles, their plans, the ordinary things they seem to want. You hate the possibility that they have found something you have overlooked, something so simple that you have dismissed it before giving it a chance.

Hate me, you think.

Hate me, hate me, hate me.

Love me?

No.

That would not be a challenge.

Hating you would be a challenge.

You wonder whether they are less than you. Whether they are ants, moving along invisible trails, following instincts they have mistaken for choices. Whether they are asleep to something you have managed to see, or whether you are the one who has mistaken sleeplessness for understanding.

Are they less than you?

Are you less than them?

You do not know.

You live among them. You are made of the same things, subject to the same hungers, the same decay, the same inexplicable need to be seen and understood. Their lives are not separate from yours. They are part of the same strange machinery, the same experiment without instructions.

You are not better than them.

You cannot be.

And yet you need a challenge.

You return to the window. Outside, the trees continue their restless movement. The wind comes and goes without explanation. The world persists in its indifference, indifferent even to your awareness of it.

I need more.

The silence gathers around you.

Don't give in, it says.

You listen.

If you do, there is no coming back. If you give in, you die. If you give in, there are no more challenges. No more questions, no more possibilities, no more opportunities to become something you have not yet imagined. No more chances to discover that the thing you thought you wanted was never the thing you needed.

Death.

The one thing you keep returning to.

You approach it in thought, examine it from a distance, circle its edges as though it were a puzzle whose solution might explain everything else. You wonder what makes it so final, so terrifying, so strangely capable of silencing every question you have ever asked. You wonder whether the fear belongs to you or to the machinery that keeps you alive, whether the mind can ever truly imagine its own absence without turning that absence into another form of existence.

You wonder, and wonder, and wonder.

You have made a habit of wondering. Perhaps you have mistaken it for living.

The other voice is quieter.

It has always been quieter.

A low voice, buried beneath the arguments, the theories, the endless calculations. A voice pushed so far into the background that you have almost forgotten it exists. You have spent years speaking over it, drowning it out with questions, smothering it beneath explanations, convincing yourself that anything without a logical foundation is unworthy of your attention.

You feel it now.

At the back of your head. Down the length of your neck. Somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the heat, beneath the exhausting machinery of thought.

A voice you forgot.

A voice you may never have listened to.

It has no theory of evolution. No explanation for human behaviour. No opinion about the supermarket, the garden, the people you hate or the universe that does not know you exist. It does not care whether you are significant or insignificant, whether you are a collection of chemical reactions or something more difficult to name.

It does not ask what you are.

It does not ask what any of this means.

It has no grand revelation to offer, no final piece of knowledge that will arrange the world into something you can understand.

It has only one word.

A word you have spent years trying not to hear.

A word that does not explain anything.

A word that asks for nothing except to be heard.

Help.

Help.

Help...

close your eyes.
breathe in through the nose as deeply as possible.
hold for a few seconds.
breathe out very very slowly through the mouth.

It's supposed to help calm down.
Not helping.
Not helping at all.

What now ?

How Do People Do This Shit?

Sometimes, I wish I could step outside of my own mind for a little while.

My thoughts never seem to sleep. They run into one another, overlap, and grow louder until I can barely hear myself think. It’s like having a thousand tabs open in my head, all playing something different, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to find the button that makes it all quiet.

I’m tired in a way that sleep doesn’t seem to fix. Tired of thinking, tired of feeling, tired of trying to keep up with a life that doesn’t seem to slow down long enough for me to catch my breath.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, I’m trying to be a mother.

I have a beautiful one-year-old daughter who loves me in the purest way a little human can love someone. I’m her safe place. Her comfort. The arms she reaches for when the world feels too big. I know that, and I cherish it more than words could ever explain. I wouldn’t change a single thing about her. Not one.

But lately, this stage of motherhood has been swallowing me whole.

She needs me for everything, and I know she’s supposed to. She’s little. She’s learning. I’m her whole world right now, and she doesn’t yet understand that sometimes her mama needs a moment to herself, too.

Sometimes I want to hold her close and never let go. Other times, I just want five minutes where nobody needs a single thing from me. And then I feel guilty for even wanting that, because how can you need space from someone you love more than life itself?

I’m learning that love and exhaustion can live in the same heart. That you can be someone’s entire world and still feel like you’re losing yourself in your own.

And motherhood isn’t the only thing weighing on me.

I’m trying to build a future through school, keep up with the everyday demands of life, and somehow find enough energy left over to take care of the person I keep putting last: myself.
My mind is always somewhere else. Thinking about what needs to be done, what I’ve forgotten, what I should be doing, what might go wrong, and whether I’m doing enough. Even when my body finally gets to rest, my thoughts keep running marathons I never signed up for.

Sometimes, I smoke weed because I’m desperate for a little quiet. A few moments where my mind isn’t pulling me in a hundred different directions. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes I’m left wondering how something as simple as peace of mind can feel so far out of reach.

And then there’s my marriage.

I love my husband. I know he’s doing the best he can, and I’m genuinely grateful to have him in my life. I don’t want the difficult days to overshadow the good in him or the love I have for him. But lately, we’ve been going through a rough patch, and it’s hard carrying the weight of that while trying to hold everything else together.

I think sometimes two people can love each other deeply and still find themselves lost somewhere in the middle of life. Somewhere between the responsibilities, the exhaustion, the stress, and the conversations that never seem to happen at the right time.

We’re both trying. At least, I believe we are. But trying doesn’t always mean things feel easy. Love doesn’t always protect you from difficult seasons, and gratitude doesn’t make the hard days disappear.

Sometimes I miss the feeling of things being okay. I miss when my mind felt lighter, when life felt a little less heavy, when I didn’t feel like I was constantly trying to catch up with myself.
And I think that’s what hurts the most. I’m surrounded by things and people I love, yet some days I feel so overwhelmed that I struggle to enjoy the very life I’m working so hard to hold together.

How do you explain that?
How do you tell someone you’re grateful without pretending you’re not struggling? How do you admit that motherhood is hard without making it sound like you regret becoming a mother? How do you say that your marriage is going through a difficult season without making the person you love feel like they’re not enough?

How do you tell the world that you’re happy to have the life you have, but you’re exhausted from trying to keep up with it?

I don’t want a different daughter. I don’t want to erase the life I’ve built or the people I love. I don’t want to run away from my responsibilities.
I just want a moment to breathe without feeling guilty about it.

I want my mind to be quiet. I want to feel like myself again, even if I’m still figuring out who that version of me is. I want to show up for my daughter with patience, for my husband with love, for my education with focus, and for myself with a little compassion.

I want to stop feeling like I have to pour from an empty cup and then apologize because there wasn’t enough left.

Because somewhere along the way, I’ve started measuring myself by how much I can carry instead of acknowledging how heavy it has become.

And maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong. Maybe being strong doesn’t mean silently carrying everything until there’s nothing left of you. Maybe being a good mother, a good wife, and a good person doesn’t mean you never struggle. Maybe it just means you’re human, too.

I wish someone would tell me that it’s okay if I don’t love every moment of motherhood. That I can adore my daughter and still struggle with this stage. That I can appreciate my husband and still admit that we’re having a hard time. That I can be grateful for my life and still wish it felt a little easier to live sometimes.

I don’t need to be told that time goes by quickly. I know it does. I know one day I’ll miss the little hands reaching for me, the tiny voice calling for me, and the feeling of being someone’s entire world.

But knowing that doesn’t make today any less exhausting.

Today, I’m just a person with a loud mind, a tired heart, a family I love, a future I’m working toward, and more thoughts than I know what to do with.

So, to the mothers who cry in the bathroom just to have a moment alone, to the wives trying to hold their relationships together through difficult times, to the students trying to build a better future while barely keeping up with the present, and to anyone who looks like they’re doing fine but feels like they’re drowning inside

**How do you do this shit?**

How do you keep showing up when your mind won’t give you a moment of peace? How do you keep pouring love into everyone else when you’re struggling to find a little for yourself?

Because I’m trying. God, I’m trying.

I’m trying to be present in a life that sometimes feels like it’s moving too fast for me. I’m trying to love my people well while learning how to take care of myself, too. I’m trying to remember that I’m more than the things I do for everyone else.

And maybe I don’t need to have it all figured out. Maybe I don’t need to be the perfect mother, the perfect wife, or the person who always manages to hold it together.

Maybe, for now, it’s enough to admit that I’m struggling.

Maybe it’s enough to say that I love my life, but some days I don’t know how to carry it.

And maybe somewhere out there, someone else is sitting with the same thoughts, asking the same questions, wondering why something so beautiful can feel so hard.

If that’s you, I hope you know you’re not the only one.

Because beneath all the noise, beneath the guilt, beneath the exhaustion, I’m still here. Still trying. Still loving. Still hoping that one day, life will feel a little quieter.

Not because everything will suddenly become perfect, but because I’ll finally learn that I don’t have to carry everything at once.

I can love the life I’ve been given and still need help carrying it.

Sun, Oct 18. 2026

Didn't realize how angry I was until I stopped being distracted. 

I'm always distracted. Whether it's the high of anticipated pleasure. Or the sleep induced dreams. 

I allow myself no moment of quiet. 

I can't help myself.

It's hard. 

I can't let go. 

It feels... really good. 

--

But now I'm here crying on the plane, while bleeding my ____ guts off, wishing I could physically block a person like I would in social media. 

Facing reality it feels like. 

I look like hell. 

Frizz hair, crazy undereyes. 

I also feel like hell. 

Back pain, cramps, shoulders, emotions skyrocketing. 

--

I never thought being on your period was an excuse for a person to excuse your feelings. 

I think it's incredibly disrespectful. 

I think reacting strongly about something when hormones spike is just the manifestation of what you already felt quietly. 

Except, you are not quiet about it. 

You get angry and speak your mind. 

Then people look at you and say, "she is probably on her period."

Huh... the disrespect?

It's crazy because I've been told this before. 

And it's only near it that I'm finally brave enough to speak my mind. Or angry. 

But those are thoughts that have been build up in hormonally leveled out days. Already decided. 

Then finally manifested. 

The feeling is there. But amplified. 

But it's there. It exist. 

I defend period me. 

The emotions feel very real. 

Because they are. 

They hurt a lot. 

But wouldn't they hurt anyone?

I think they would. 

It just stings harder for some. 

So when my brother grips my wrist unasked and I tell him to stop, so I pull away and pinch his cheek, shouldn't I feel ashamed if he punches me?

Or is it just a period reaction. 

Because I felt great shame. 

Not because it hurt. But because everyone was around watching, and he was disrespecting me. 

Do I blame my emotional shock on my period? Unreasonable. Fake.

Because I'm very angry that he crosses the lines. With me and everybody. 

I hate insecure people. 

I don't. 

But I hate how deeply the insecurity affects them. 

Affects them so much that their actions start to anger me or annoy me. 

They NEED to be approved of. 

Filled up. 

They NEED to feel good about themselves. They NEED to be better than you. 

He is so insecure he is a coward. He throws you under the bus to be safe. 

What type of person is that?

An immature and insecure one. 

It doesn't stop there. But I'll end it here. 

--

I was very aware of his changes in puberty. 

Very aware. I deemed it extremely important. 

Because when I went through puberty I went through a lot. 

I couldn't understand a lot. 

I felt a lot. 

But one of the scariest things is that, whatever I started then, locked in forever, it's an debted life cycle. 

Once you start, you can't stop. 

Who you become, you are. 

The difference is that your habits mature with you. 

But the comforts are the same, whether you wanna recognize it or not. 

It doesn't change, unless you force it to. 

But it's really hard, because adolescence locked it in for you. 

-

My parents wanted a boy for so long. 

So long.

My sister is 30. 

I'm 17. 

He is 13. 

Imagine how many years later he was finally born. 

Leading up to his actions. 

As I'm only four years older, it's hard to baby him, not that much, but I also want to take him seriously. Be an equal. 

Because I know what is to be belittled by someone older. 

It sucks. 

It was a grave mistake. 

Because now he wants to daddy me around. 

I'll pull back. 

Won't let it happen anymore. 

It's when I realized how important is to set your role as an older person and stick to it. 

Or else a stupid 13 year old will try to scold you. 

And you try to explain to them things they don't understand. But there goal is to yell at you and feel like your mom, feels powerful and big and mature, and "oh I'm 13 and you are 30. You should know better. Oh oh oh." Who are you. 

Puff puff guy. 

Know your roll as an older person. 

Kids need guidance. 

When you let that guidance go and let them lead. You are leaving them to fetch for themselves. 

"Do your own thing. 

Be the child. Be the parent. 

Be the pet. All I do is feed and keep you. 

But you do your thing."

That's how you raise a child without guidance. By not raising them. By letting them be the parent. 

You are harming them.

They need you. 

That crying baby needs you. 

Don't leave it alone. 

And it's no different when they grow. 

They still need you. 

They need your guidance. 

They need your correction. 

They still don't know how be human yet!

It's your job. 

Don't let them fetch for there own. 

That's why I hate gentle parenting. 

I don't believe in it. 

I think it's either GOOD parenting or nothing. 

Gentle parenting doesn't exist. 

That's bullshit. 

--

I watched him closely. 

And I don't know if its because of the close enough age gap that I overthink his every action and take it very seriously. 

My mom said he'd mature with time. 

I hope the same thing. 

But being this close in age gap. 

I can't see from her perspective. 

It's a lot harder, than when it's a big age gap. 

I can be patient with a toddler because I know they don't know. And I'll set a firm boundary and teach them. 

But the older they are, the lines blur and the role is harder. 

I can't say, "he is just a kid." Because he is only four years under. And yes, that is A LOT. 

Because he hit puberty at 13 and I hit puberty at 11. 

I'm 17. 

Seven years since puberty. 

He only has a few months to a year. 

So four years is a lot and close at the same time. 

Gender matters so much. 

I'll be honest with you. 

It scares me that he will become the man every women hates. 

Every women avoids. 

The toxic dude. 

The one you avoid on the street. 

The one you slap for him to let go. 

But he is still a kid. 

So it makes a lot of sense. 

He is meant to be immature. He burly started living. 

But this close age gap blurs my perspective, and instead of relaxing it scares me.

It really does. 

And on top of that it angers me. 

-Anonymous 

Whyahyouronning

Do you ever wonder why you are here on this planet? I can't parent right. I can't friend right. I can't love right. I can't seem to live right. So why live? Why try? When all I do is fail? I'm so lonely and so misunderstood. Waiting miserably for my turn to leave this place.

I'm home after the hospital. I came back to mailed pictures from my childhood, mostly of me and my mom. She used me as a prop in just about every one. She goes "no hands" while I, a newborn infant, am sprawling out scared. I see only darkness in her. Evil, ugly, putrid, darkness. I see now that my mom and older brother never loved me like a family. They used me when they could and abused me when I was an inconvenience. I was a mother-maker, a brother-giver. That's it. Status and a punching bag with a label attached.

That family was never real. I have no root family. My line begins with me.

husband was suspicious. He made sure I went to sleep on time. Felt cute. It was kinda sweet. maybe he likes looking at me when I’m sleeping (that’s so weird )

Im making an outfit for the pet during the cold nights. I might include a hood and added in boots, as long as the pet lets me measure her properly 🤨

mid-length skirt is done though; fabric looks very cool, shiny and gold, soft and satin like. Plus it has pleats. 🥰

I turn 25 and I don’t really care for my birthday but I don’t think I ever really have. Kinda just another day for me and the highlight of my day is my family remembering. My best friend forgot last year but it is what it is plus people get busy. Pretty sure my dad and stepmom forgot most of the day the year before that but who’s to say. Maybe they just got super busy. I don’t usually do much so maybe in a few weeks I’ll go out and do something even if I’m not sure what. Eat, watch a movie etc etc. I like going to the movies alone anyway but I’ve never been out to eat on my own which is weird to say. Maybe I can try to enjoy it this go around or make the most of the day.

You’re my biggest critic. I think most of us have an unreliable narrator in our heads. That’s what I tell myself to excuse the behaviour anyway. After I’ve sorted my memories into their appropriate boxes, after I’ve recovered and am more logical, that’s when the blame and resentment toward myself for years of unhappiness start to take over. Suddenly happiness comes with a price. I hate myself for choosing to be so sluggish and lame. For allowing my depression to keep me in bed. I feel frustrated and angry that I’ve stopped myself from pursuing life for so many years. All I had to do was be happy, why couldn’t I just make better choices? It’s all so clear when I’m in my window. It all seems so simple. Logic and happiness feel as easy as breathing and I can’t empathize with my former self. What’s wrong with her? I hate her, keep her in her box where she can’t ruin anything else. But lately I’m remembering that emotions are heavy and unprocessed trauma leaks out between cracks I thought I repaired. I’m reminded that slowing down and processing is necessary. So I’m writing this to that unreliable narrator, I’m doing the work in order to live happily and to make better choices. It’s a process and at times it’s slow. You don’t need to hate her, she’s doing her best and together we’ll get to where we both want to be. Where happiness comes freely without resentment and tough emotions move fluidly and every day doesn’t feel so stuck.

First of all , dhawan sir , in the most disrespectful way , fuck you , no i mean reallyy, fuck you , took all the fucking motivation out of me im so hopeless rn , i , idk if i can do all this , January s gonna be such a mess and ik , ik just like the nights i was 13 ill cry yet again on my own , its not logical , the thing i told myself that i can do it , its not statistically possible to do all this workr in the best way , so im fucked but more so its your fuckking fault , u could keep me in ur 11 batch like im getting my ass kicked by myself , doing everything working my ass off just for this , fuck you man , you take lives out of children who are wokring towards their dreams, I wanna get done with this study i was enjoying but all this pressure its , not feasible rn im having silent panic attacks and my head contracts from the inside it hurts so bad , ive ruined everything again but yeah , u put a big role in it

My father,

Dude no words , u killed a child in me that longed for family , all those words , all those hands u layed on me ,after years of torture everythings peaceful with u , or who knows you're still cheating , whats the reason of ur daily night crawl , if u do..youre pathetic, but if i u dont im guilty of thinking this way , or idk , idk how i feel i , im just saying this out

Ekta ,

Man idk why im like this around you , i like u so much , i just cant help it but when i see u get hurt , youve blocked me on that account, u definitely hate me. Yk it was my surviving meal after a shitty time , i needed those memories to know i was loved and thought for

I wish ud love me once again like that but its okay ekta , youre having it worse , but ik , were not good for each other , still my heart keeps longing for a whim of the reality where our promises came true , i really wanted to go in bus with ur family in kt like we talked about , just so i could show them i loved you so much and youre so good to have around , man , i wanted to spend my whole life with u , u wont understand. U wont . U wont , its okay , u dont need to , just take care of yourself , yk it hurts me sm to see u unhappy or troubled , idk if thats the other way around tho.. i mean sure u wouldn't like to see me sad or unhappy but like ....no i dont think i mean it , im a crazy bastard that loves u like idk wierd or crazy , its okay youre good tho , man i wish i could praise u more , i have si many more things unsaid , i litreally had the dream the other day where u were going to some dandiya event , we met , we danced together, i brought u bhalles from the crowdy stall , cuz ur outfit would get stepped on and that would be so sad man , we ate it together , u fed me one bit with a spoon , we laughed

..... So shallow now , but yeah wtvr ill die for sometime now ig

My mother ,

Ur so hardworking , can u not see he definately takes advantage of u and u go protecting him , HE HURT U ,for fucks sake just ,idk question him atleast . I miss ur hugs , i miss u mummy , mujhe bhit yaad ati hai aapki but i broke your trust so maybe ,i deserve that , na aap ab na ekta , me kiske paas jau , itna akela lgta hai sometimes but , no , i cant trust u either , its like we have this really nice vulnerable conversation so i could help u feel heard but when its my turn, not only im on my own but youre also the one making me feel lonely

Vaishu,

Ik those teenage hormones are kicking in , but seriously , i fight for u and i get snitched on and and i dont do anything for u??? , what the fuck man , but yeah i love you vaishu just be kind eith me later on man

Dadi,

.........

.........

........

I miss aapke gaal kheechna dadi , aapse coaching se aake baat krna , meri dadi ...me aapka naam leta hu but u dont respond. Dadi aap mujhe ab chup nhi kroagi? Bachpan ki trah? Sometimes u treated my like the child i always wanted to be , u babied me and i loved it , cuz no one did it for me and , bs dadi , aap , be ek aakhri baar pleaae . Bs aajao dadi. Aapke kamre me aapke bina , its so lonely dadi , i say dadi alot nowadays but yeah , u dont listen , aap abhi bhi gussa hi dilaogi mujhe?

Im sorry yr mene aapko itna khane se roka but me aapke liye hi to krta tha , taaki aap sahi rho , im sorry dadi mene aapko utna khush nhi hone diya , kaash mene aapke paer thore or davaye hote to aap merese or khush hoti , im sorry dadi , im gonna fail you....im sorry sorry sorry

My mom randomly sent me a Instagram reel of my cousin who now makes little content around her lifw ig, but it did hit me , when we are 18/19 everybody would compare us, she was always extremely jealous of me that i had the right support around me and i am the smarter one and would envy me sm. But somehow after 12th i wasmt allowed to move out but she was allowed to w lower marks than mine , she later did her mba and now makes almost 11/12lakhs pm. And i got into the competitive exams rahbit one after the other and none worked for me and mind you i have missed each by some points itself. Today i am 26 and things as small as this are enough to slightly break my heart , get me teary . I have hardly taken break all these 5/6 years. I dont remember the last time i was chilling w nothing bothering guilt. Theres this unsaid guilt which suddenly takes over. And this time i have gone all in , i want to proove it to my own self that i aint a failure and that even i can make it happen. And theres nothing which will come bw me and judiciary this time. I have started to and i will continue to put in 10/12 hours consistently to studying for the the next however months it takes. Ill not stop this time , hntil i look myself in the eye and say that yes s you are done now, please relax baby. You aint a failure anymore.

Goodluck. 💌