fragments of a dying light.

I have a feeling you got everything you wanted
And you're not wastin' time stuck here like me
You're just thinkin' it's a small thing that happened
The world ended when it happened to me (we hug now- sydney rose)

Fear is eating me alive. Future responsibilities are crushing my soul, and I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough this time to stand up for myself.

My life feels like a tape stuck on repeat, starting over and over again. But I’m tired of hearing the same story.

And yet, it feels as if I don’t want to abandon the tortured version of myself, because I don’t know who I am without darkness. When pain becomes your mortal companion, the idea of letting it go feels like losing a part of yourself. It’s hard to imagine who I am beyond the stormy days, as they’ve been so intertwined with my identity.

All this questioning has to mean something. Is there a part of me that wants more? A part that knows who I really am?

I always wonder if all this yapping is empty. Maybe they’re small sparks of the person I want to become, even though I don’t fully believe in myself yet. I hope my words are heavy with trust. They mustn’t be mere random thoughts. All this time spent thinking has to mean something.

I mean, it would be much easier to disappear forever, but here I am once more, writing my weaknesses for the public eye.

I see the people I love struggling every day. I admire their strength, their courage. I'm inspired by their steps.

They are the hard workers of building possibilities, while I'm the best runner at the marathon of ruining dreams.

When I think about them achieving their goals, I'm genuinely proud of them, but deep down I'm feeding my gut with jealousy. They went through hell just like me, but I envy them. Because they seem so happy now...

What would it look like to finally like me—not for others, not to ease their worry, but just for me?

All the promises I make to the people I care about—are they real? Do I truly want to be better? Do I want to finally embrace the journey of active living? Or am I just trying to please them, so they won’t worry about me when I’m alone again?

How did they do that? How am I going to break the chains of this comfortable yet suffocating prison of rain?