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's been a while, hasn't it? I've been away, mainly because life has been treating me exceptionally well these past few months. November and December of 2023 turned things around for me after a rather challenging year. Suddenly, it's a new year.

As I mentioned, life has been good — a stable job, peace of mind, and being in my hometown means financial worries are a thing of the past. I've even set some goals for 2024. However, amidst all the positivity, there's one persistent thought: my loneliness. It tends to creep in when everything else seems settled. Despite the calendar flipping to a new year, my sense of companionship remains unchanged.

I fear I won't be leaving the memories of 2023 behind. It's a concern, and I'm only holding on to those connections to avoid the loneliness that haunted me last year. Yet, even with them around, I still feel alone. In a way, I realize I might be running away — from the city's challenges, unhealthy coping mechanisms, bad habits, and the pangs of loneliness. Here in my hometown, I can escape those struggles. However, the city beckons, asking when I'll return. I find myself offering nothing but excuses, at least until I've taken care of my own needs.

I'm content now, a truth I can admit. Feeling lonely doesn't equate to unhappiness. My focus now is on things I can control, which is where my 2024 goals come into play.

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.