25/03/2026
WHY?
This country feels broken.
Not cracked — rotted.
Run by people who’ve never queued, never worried,
never had to choose between rest and survival.
They speak in promises.
They vanish in practice.
I’m not left.
I’m not right.
I stand somewhere tired in the middle,
watching everyone shout while nothing changes.
So I stay quiet — not because I have nothing to say,
but because saying it costs too much.
I’ve worked hard.
I’ve been hurt — physically, mentally.
I asked for help and learned how loud silence can be.
The systems meant to catch you
just watch you fall.
I’ve lost people in ways that never leave you.
I’ve seen enough life to age me twice.
If resilience were visible,
mine would be carved into bone.
I’m exhausted.
Not lazy-tired — soul-tired.
Still dreaming, still wanting more,
still pushing while my body and mind beg me to stop.
The wrong people rise.
The deserving disappear.
You’re either “too much” or “not enough.”
Never just… enough.
Everyone’s glued to screens.
Connected to everything except each other.
I miss when things felt real.
When joy was simple.
When presence mattered.
People don’t talk anymore.
They don’t see each other.
And I think — quietly —
that most people are lonely
but pretending they aren’t.
I live in my own cocoon.
Watching the world like it’s a storm outside glass.
Maybe I’m detached.
Maybe that’s how I survived.
I’ve labelled myself with words, diagnoses, explanations —
not to excuse anything,
but to understand how I made it this far.
I don’t hate people.
I’m just confused by them.
By how quickly they forget you.
How easily they move on.
I remember everything.
Too much, maybe.
Even after injury, even after loss,
memory sticks like glue.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m wrong.
If I’m out of sync with reality.
If this disconnect is mine alone.
But one thing I know —
I am kind.
I help when I can.
I care even when it hurts.
I wish I had powers —
to rewind, to skip ahead,
to escape this part of the story.
Space feels calmer.
The ocean feels quieter.
This world is loud.
And frightening.
Why am I me?
I don’t know anymore.
Will it change?
I don’t know.
All I know
is I’m still here —
still feeling, still questioning,
still trying not to harden.
And maybe that counts for something.
