Six months ago today my world shattered — and it was never pieced back together. I have laughed. I have cried. I have lived since then, but I remain broken all the same. Not a day passes when my mother doesn’t cross my mind. Some might call it an exaggeration, especially with so much else going on in my life, who would have the time? but every waking moment, every breath I take, every tiny thing that happens to me, for a split 0.03 seconds I want to tell her. In those milliseconds the thought vanishes, reminding me that I can’t.

I used to be a firm believer in “this too shall pass.” Every heartbreak, every streak of bad luck — six months tops, I’d tell myself. And here I am, six months later, writing and admitting that this one is different. It’s been six months since I felt like I lost my life, and oh, what an ache — what a pain — to keep going. Six months since I’ve hoped each day to be reunited with her. Six months since boys stopped occupying my mind. Six months since every petty problem revealed itself as just that: petty.

It’s been six months since I learned what true heartbreak means.

In another life, corporate life feels peaceful. Mornings are calm as you get ready, breathing in the fresh air. The first touch of sunlight accompanies your commute, setting the tone for the day ahead. In this life, work isn't a burden—it's fulfilling. You walk into a job you enjoy, surrounded by the familiar clicking of keyboards and the steady hum of colleagues in their element. Laughter echoes over lunch, friendships form over shared jokes, and harmless gossip fills the air by the coffee machine at 3 p.m.  

In another life, corporate life doesn’t drain your soul. You leave on time, guilt-free, with no lingering obligations. You come home tired, but satisfied—ready to embrace tomorrow with anticipation. There are no blaring alarms, no endless traffic jams that leave your body aching. No overbearing middle management watching your every move. No burnout.  

In another life, corporate life isn’t so bad.

I ache for things I have no memory of, perhaps memories from a life lived elsewhere. Like gathering with a circle of friends in my late twenties, those who meet every few months, who remind me of life's simple joys and the truth that we never truly outgrow one another. I yearn for a work-life so balanced it doesn't crush my spirit, where choosing between mental health and the world outside isn’t a daily struggle. I dream of stepping out my door with purpose, with the quiet thrill of wanting to be somewhere. Instead, I’m left with vague memories that feel borrowed from another lifetime, while in this one, I stand alone, surrounded by the absence of what I crave.

Some days, imposter syndrome feels all too real. Sometimes, I’m convinced I have it; other days, I wonder if it’s just another buzzword I picked up. I feel like a fool, a fake, a fraud — take your pick. Or maybe I’m just unwell. Either way, I’m not sure who I am anymore — or maybe I never knew. Or was I just lying to myself again? I’ve forgotten what it feels like to write, even though I do it every day... or do I just force myself to? I don’t even know what I like or dislike anymore, but my friends seem to remember for me. At least, that’s what I tell them. At least I have my hobbies, or are they just routines I’m stuck in? I don’t know anymore. But I do have people who love me, or at least the ones I convince myself do.

There are days when the dawn's light kisses my skin just right, infusing me with the warmth of a world waiting to be embraced. On those days, friendships bloom, hobbies flourish, meals are savored, and chores are effortlessly conquered. My gaze lifts to the sky, filled with gratitude for the life I lead and the person I am.

But then there are days when darkness reigns. Sometimes it's a tempest of hate, other times a deluge of sadness. These emotions rise without warning, like a cliffhanger with no resolution. Publicly displaying this turmoil would only reveal a mind with loose screws, so I keep it hidden. On such days, nothing ventures beyond the door. Clothes remain stained with yesterday's air, friends are neglected, meals are hastily assembled. I am paralyzed, unable to move beyond the overwhelming waves, simply hoping to remain unseen until the storm passes.

I've genuinely been at peace. From the bottom of my heart, I can say that without any signs of dishonesty. However, a creeping feeling of sadness appears when I least expect it, even in my most ecstatic moments. It's like a tiny dot on my heart that never goes away.

Today wasn't exactly what I'd call a stellar day. It wasn't necessarily bad either, just a bit lackluster, I suppose. Overall, life's been treating me well, and I'm genuinely grateful; there's nothing significant to gripe about, really. Yet, like most people, I find myself always yearning for more, and for that, I apologize. I tend to only put pen to paper when things feel rough, so I'm not entirely sure what's brought me here to vent. Work's going smoothly, I've been spending time with friends, indulging in hobbies, and managing my finances. I handle the usual tasks someone my age would. But amidst it all, there's the constant companion of loneliness.

Loneliness has been a steadfast companion throughout my journey. It doesn't matter how much money I have or how many friends surround me; it persists. I wish I could banish it, truly. Yet, no matter what I try, it lingers. I suppose I'm writing to make a mark on my own life, a sort of checkpoint to reflect upon later. I hope that things will change, that the future will bring something different. Whatever it may be, good or bad, I hope it aligns with the desires of my present self.

It feels unfair that some people have discovered what love is so early in their lives. No, not family love—the kind that’s expected. Families are supposed to love you; it’s the bare minimum. They’re the souls you’re placed on earth to be with, and I have that. But I mean the kind of love that has to be built—the kind rooted in a deep connection, where every small detail matters. Whether it’s the way someone’s smile breaks or how their mind wanders over a simple question—anything, really, that makes you think: This is my person.

Some people find that love long before their first paycheck, their college degree, or even their first phone. And the really lucky ones? They find it so early they barely recognize it as luck. It’s a long journey, they say, growing together while growing apart, navigating arguments, misunderstandings, and miscommunications. A long journey before you realize the person beside you is the one you’ll walk with forever.

The lucky ones rarely see themselves as lucky. But I do. They don’t know what they have—or what others lack.

Those of us who are less fortunate find love in other places. In the cracks of bad luck, in corners of ourselves we never expected, or by simply waiting, hoping that life will bring it our way. I’ve been all of those—floating from feeling to feeling, chasing whatever brings comfort in the moment. They say the love within ourselves is the true purpose of life, the one path to real contentment. And maybe they’re right. But even so, loneliness has a way of creeping in, toppling that self-love when you least expect it.

I guess God is fair. No one gets it all. The lucky ones might find love early but lack in other ways, while the rest of us thrive where they stumble. Maybe that’s just how things are meant to be.

I'm back here again, not that it's a bad thing. I suppose lonely nights have a way of bringing me back to my thoughts. It's a Friday night, and honestly, I'm living my best life at the moment. I have a great job that I excel at, and I regularly spend time with my friends. However, solitary Friday nights always affect me, especially if my plans for the night fell through.

Nevertheless, these lonely Friday nights have made me ponder. It occurs to me that certain people, whom I used to think about so often, may not think of me at all. Who are these people? Well, I don't know exactly. Perhaps those individuals I believed would never forget me due to the way they mistreated me. Despite convincing myself that I am unforgettable and the best thing that happened to them, the truth is, that's a falsehood.

In reality, they will likely find someone better than me—someone kinder, softer, more gentle, and more understanding. Someone who aligns more with their preferences, someone who simply isn't me. I continue to be the girl who was left behind, remaining hurt and perhaps in an even worse state. But regardless, I stay true to who I am, left and gutted. 

Seeking Inspiration

It has come to a point in my blogging journey where I find myself in need of fresh ideas. I'm currently at a creative crossroads, which is surprising considering I used to make a living out of writing blogs. It's a bit perplexing because I can't quite pinpoint my niche anymore.

Embracing Spontaneity

I've evolved into a more spontaneous writer, allowing my emotions and passions to guide my words. While I understand that this isn't a full-fledged career, it still holds immense personal value for me. There's an undeniable sense of gratification that comes with expressing my thoughts and feelings, even if it feels like no one's reading.

The Pitfalls of Overthinking

But the moment I start overthinking and exerting too much effort into finding the right words, that's when my content takes a nosedive in quality. It's disheartening to admit, but I fear this very post might be headed in that direction.

The Ominous Silence

The process feels increasingly monotonous, and my mind seems eerily silent. Some might argue that this silence is a form of peace, a chance for introspection. Yet, I see it as nothing less than writer's block, an obstacle I must overcome to rediscover my passion and creativity.

I wish to look back on my entries and feel something, I assume. So here goes an endless stream of written words about my life that ends here. The useless piece of information or the gut-wrenching confession, it's all written here. As of now, it's just the mundane life of being at home 24/7, saying only 5 words per day, and only to myself. I sleep through the day, waking up only to reply to emails and staying up all night following up on said emails, discovering movies I never knew existed. Five days a week and repeat, hoping that one of these days that would change.

Every few days, I get to see familiar faces, and those days are tomorrow. I get to see Amy and Mimi again. The band is back together? It's hard to tell. I guess a little backstory for my future self reading this wouldn't hurt. Amy, Mimi, and I drifted apart due to what we adults called life. We simply stopped seeing each other. Of course, there's more to that, but let's not get into harsh details. But when we used to spend every waking moment seeing each other's faces, I guess it was a time I didn't appreciate enough. There were bad times, but there were definitely good times. I remember having the worst heartbreak I've ever felt in my entire life. They don't know this, but being surrounded by them stopped me from not wanting to be alive anymore. I couldn't actually drown myself in pills when there's no private time. And that isn't a bad thing. We had good times, and tomorrow we get to see each other again, hoping the feeling is the same.

What exactly takes the pain away? Here I am at 12:41 am attempting to put my pain into words once again. So what does take the pain away? Some would agree it would be death, since life is sometimes just a series of pain over and over again. One might feel like death, but sometimes it might hurt a little less than before. But death isn't an option right now. I don't know why, honestly. Do I feel like it? Yes, but is it wise? Not really. I know deep down I have so much to live for, so much to do, so much to offer to the world. And that, I assume, is in the future. But what about right now? What will it take to alleviate how I'm feeling, right? Friends? Family? Therapy and a two-month prescription for drugs I have to live with for the rest of my life? A feeling that I can't exactly point my finger at. Anger? Betrayal? Loneliness? All of that, and because of what? So many unanswered questions, so few answers. The people in my head better be paying rent because all these thoughts are truly unnecessary.

You know, being a writer can be a rollercoaster of emotions. One moment, you're anxious about writing, the next, you're anxious about not writing. It's like a never-ending tug-of-war with your own thoughts.

And let's not forget the anticipation of people reading your stories. It's a mix of excitement and fear. Will they love it? Hate it? Will they even bother to read it? The uncertainty can drive you up the wall.

But then again, there's also the anxiety of people not reading your stories. It's like pouring your heart onto the page only for it to go unnoticed. It can be disheartening, to say the least.

And editing? Oh boy, that's a whole new level of anxiety. You're torn between wanting to perfect your work and being afraid of ruining it. It's a delicate dance of self-doubt and meticulous scrutiny.

But here's the catch: even when you're bursting with ideas, anxiety sneaks in. Having too many ideas can be overwhelming. You're drowning in a sea of possibilities, unsure of which one to pursue. It's like having a thousand puzzle pieces without a clue where to start.

Then there's the agony of not having any good ideas at all. The blank page stares back at you, mocking your creative drought. The fear of running out of inspiration gnaws at your soul.

And time, oh precious time. Not having enough of it is a constant struggle. You yearn for more moments to dedicate to your craft, to dive into your imagination. But ironically, having too much time can be equally daunting. The vast expanse stretches before you, and suddenly, the pressure to produce something remarkable becomes overwhelming.

So, you see, being a writer is a delicate balancing act. Anxious about writing, anxious about not writing. Anxious about readers, anxious about being ignored. Anxious about editing, anxious about ideas. Anxious about time, anxious about too much time. It's a wild ride, but one we willingly embrace, hoping that our words will resonate with someone out there.

People say, "Learn to be alone." They paint a picture of solitude as an idyllic sanctuary, where one can revel in the tranquility of their own company. "Enjoy your solitude, find a hobby," they say. "Find peace in your alone time." And yet, here I stand, having done all that for what feels like an eternity.

I have mastered the art of navigating the depths of isolation. I have traversed through the darkest corners of my existence, walking the lonely path through the shadows of my own mind. I have faced the demons that reside within, battling them with sheer resilience and unwavering determination. Through it all, I have been my own unwavering companion, picking up the shattered pieces of my soul, one fragment at a time.

But now, here I am, exhausted and depleted. The weariness has seeped into the marrow of my bones, and my spirit yearns for something more. It's not about wanting to be with someone, nor is it an inability to find solace in my own solitude. No, it runs deeper than that. I am simply sick of it all at this point.

I yearn for the warmth of human connection, the gentle touch that mends the fractures in my heart. I crave the laughter shared between kindred souls, the comfort of knowing that I am not alone in this vast, bewildering universe. It's the simple joy of sharing life's moments with someone who truly understands, someone who sees the world through the same kaleidoscope of emotions.

For so long, I have been a lone voyager, navigating uncharted waters with no lighthouse in sight. I have tasted the bitter sting of solitude and carried its weight upon my weary shoulders. But now, the weight has become too heavy, and my soul longs for respite from the burdens it has carried for far too long.

Now you're just another one of my problems. Life has a funny way of twisting and turning, leading us down unexpected paths. Once upon a time, you were everything to me, a beacon of light in my world. But now, you've become another weight on my shoulders.

I can still recall the days when our laughter filled the air, when we believed we could conquer anything together. Our love was once a tapestry of dreams, woven with hope and passion. But slowly, like the erosion of a mountain, our foundation began to crumble.

The fractures in our relationship were subtle at first, unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. We drifted apart, like two ships sailing in opposite directions, clinging only to fading memories. The love that held us together slipped through our grasp, leaving behind only regrets.

Every conversation became a struggle, filled with misunderstandings and frustration. We sought solace in each other's arms, but our touch felt hollow, devoid of the warmth that once ignited our souls. The flame that burned so brightly had extinguished, leaving behind only ashes.

And now, here we stand, facing the reality of what we've become. Laughter no longer echoes through the halls; instead, tears and arguments fill the silence. You were once the solution to my problems, but now, you've become one of them.

Yet, amidst the chaos, a part of me clings to the memories of our past. I remember your laughter, your smile that could light up the darkest room. It's hard to let go of something that was once beautiful, even when it's broken.

You know, it's funny how people from your past can sometimes paint a picture of you that's so outdated, it's practically a relic. It's like they're stuck in a time warp, holding onto memories that no longer reflect who you are today. So, if you ever happen to hear someone talking about me, just remember that they're describing a version of me they haven't bothered to get to know.

Sure, I've changed. We all do. Life molds us, shapes us into different beings with each passing experience. I'm not the same person I was back then, back when those individuals shared a piece of my story. They might recall the old quirks, the youthful dreams, and the insecurities that plagued me at the time. But they can't possibly grasp the growth I've undergone, the layers I've shed, and the wisdom I've acquired along the way.

It's like catching a glimpse of an old photograph and assuming that the frozen moment captures the entirety of who I am. But there's so much more to me than those faded snapshots. I've ventured through uncharted territories, tasted both triumph and defeat, and discovered a depth of resilience I never knew I possessed.

So, when they talk about me, listen with a grain of salt. Let their words pass through the filter of time and distance. Understand that they may cling to outdated narratives because change is uncomfortable, and embracing the unfamiliar is daunting. They may hold onto the past because it's familiar and safe.

There was a time when I found myself desperately pleading for someone to love me the way I loved them, and it remains one of the most heart-wrenching experiences of my life. The depths of my vulnerability were unfathomable as I laid bare my emotions, hoping against hope that they would reciprocate my affection. It was a humbling act, one that I had never imagined I would resort to.

Each day, I poured my heart out to them, showering them with an abundance of adoration and tenderness. I selflessly offered my love, as though it were a rare and precious treasure, longing for them to understand the magnitude of my feelings. But, alas, my efforts were in vain. I found myself begging, as if begging could compel someone to love you back.

In that moment, I compromised my own sense of self, relinquishing my dignity for a glimmer of hope. It was a bitter realization that love cannot be coerced or won through desperate pleas. Love is an organic, natural force that must flow freely, unencumbered by manipulation or force. I had lost sight of my own worth, allowing my heart to be overshadowed by the shadows of unrequited desire.

Perhaps there is merit in suffering, for it is from the depths of pain that an artist's true expression emerges. Can one truly create if consumed by unyielding happiness? Would the desire to create even exist? After all, what is art but a defiant protest against the harshness of life?

From my perspective, suffering serves a purpose in my artistic journey. It is during my darkest moments that my creativity flourishes. The weight of my anguish becomes the foundation upon which I build my art, each piece reflecting the depth of my emotions.

Art, in its essence, is a rebellion against the cruelties and uncertainties of existence. With every brushstroke or written word, I challenge the oppressive forces that surround me. My work becomes a vessel for the pain I endure, a testament to my resilience.

In the midst of sorrow, I find solace in my art. It is through my suffering that I discover the true depth of my creativity. The gloom and chaos of my mind become a canvas, where I translate my torment into visual or literary form. The result is a chaotic beauty, an echo of the turbulent symphony within me.

In contrast, when happiness envelops me, my artistic impulse dwindles. The brightness of the world, the laughter and warmth, offer little stimulation. How can I create something meaningful when my hands lack the imprints of tears? How can I compose when my heart has forgotten the melody of agony?

It is in suffering that my inspiration finds its source. The depths of my despair provide the wellspring from which I draw. Each stroke of the brush or word written carries the weight of my longing. Through suffering, I am compelled to transmute pain into something profound.