the same routine, the same people, the same thoughts, the same feelings when did this start?, more importantly when will it end? is it going somewhere? or is it another distraction from moving forward? how come everytime i move myself, i find myself paralyzed in action just a few months later. colors don’t glow, light doesn’t shine, and trying to find out what matters has become the only thing that matters the most. its the same patters and stimulations, the ones i once found so striking and elusive. so what changed? how come my passion and hard work always seems to reward me with the misery of it not meaning anything?

i wake up with a sense of dread, at first pinning it on the standard work annoyance, unaware of the descent i will face for some next months, years. those sleepless nights, the lack of joy, inability to communicate my feelings to the seemingly happy and content species that surround me. the thrill of learning something new is followed by the slow erosion of wonder. a rift is developing between my former and the present being, hobbies no longer satisfies my desire for those weekend escapism. talking about it only makes it real, every now and then i feel elated, overjoyed with life and almost godlike, this mania drives away and confuses the only ones willing to listen.

in those twilight moment of self-reflection, i see the totality of anguish, x-ray vision of despair lasers through the impermanence of it all, the only true comfort in this changeless environment is the acknowledgement that there truly is nothing to be hopeful for. this feeling is similar to leaping from a burning building. the terror of falling from a great height is still as great as feeling my skin melting off, its not desiring the fall; its the terror of the flames. though i am unable to find the source of these flames or even when the building started burning or how i got on this floor, but i am here, about to fall to my bloodbath.

i start to look, seeking for some comfort maybe, or to distract myself into the world, but where should i look, the politics is it has always been, hypocrites calling out other hypocrites over some fake promises which even they have on their belt, a huge amount of it. it remains a theatre.

• seeing other people’s “candid” life on social media when their reality is so much more disturbing than the straightforward and adventurous they show.
• the “real” friends keep calling me to meet, that’s just the facade for them to drink 5 times a week and not feel guilty about it, because ofcourse the office pressure and daily life headaches have turned them towards alcoholism, this magical drink will keep all of my problems away, or so it is marketed by that, but it will be my eventual doom, and yet the hangover; physical or otherwise — always returns me to the same room, the same ceiling, the same void.
• art might be one of the good ones of these distractions, the most noble of distractions, is no longer immune. i still admire it, still respect its attempt to wrest beauty from the chaos, but i can see the scaffolding behind the canvas. i can hear the artist’s desperation in every brushstroke, the plea for the work to outlive them, to mean something. but meaning is slippery. it evaporates when held too tightly.

mornings begin with the same muted light filtering through the curtains, carrying no promise of warmth or change. the same thoughts line up in my head like prisoners awaiting roll call: unfinished plans, obligations that feel both urgent and meaningless, the faint but persistent dread that all of this is not a phase but the shape of my life. some mornings i can pretend i’m fine. i can even smile, sip coffee, and engage in the small talk of functional adults. but beneath the surface, the ground is cracked. i’m not standing — i’m balancing on something that is slowly giving way.

every attempt to outrun it feels like running in waist-deep water. a new skill learned, a hobby adopted, a different routine — all of them glitter briefly before dulling. the sharpness of novelty blunts so fast now. the bright edges fade into a gray familiarity, and i’m left with the same hollow quiet. sometimes i wonder if the problem is me — that perhaps i have consumed so much stimulation, so many flavors, that i have burned out my capacity for wonder. and yet, in moments of brutal clarity, i know it’s not just overstimulation. it’s that the machinery of daily life grinds down every spark until it fits neatly into the dull rhythm of survival.

there is a certain cruelty in the fact that i still feel small bursts of joy — an unexpected laugh, a glint of sunlight in a puddle, the moment when a song hits a perfect note. they flare up, fragile and bright, but their brevity only makes the return to the gray more unbearable. the fall from joy to nothing is sharp. it leaves me disoriented, as if i’ve briefly glimpsed another world and then been violently exiled.

people say “find meaning” — but meaning is not a treasure you dig up once and carry forever. it leaks. it evaporates. it’s stolen in your sleep. and when you keep having to find it again and again, you start to wonder if you’re chasing a mirage. sometimes i think the worst part isn’t the dread or the exhaustion, but the possibility that i might adapt completely. that one day i’ll stop noticing the absence. that i’ll stop missing the fire.