Ever feel like you’re just moving through time, but not really living in it? Like you’re caught in some endless cycle—one day bleeding into the next, seasons changing around you, but inside, you’re just… stuck?
I’ve felt it. The weight of repetition. The slow suffocation of knowing tomorrow won’t be much different from today. Wake up. Go through the motions. Pretend it matters. Sleep. Repeat.
And the world keeps turning, as if it wouldn’t even notice if I stopped.
For the longest time, I thought that was it. That life was just something to be endured, a script already written where I was just a background character. It’s a strange kind of loneliness—being surrounded by movement but feeling completely still.
But then… something shifted. Not in some grand, cinematic way. There was no revelation, no sudden burst of meaning. Just a realization—if I was trapped in a cycle, then maybe I could break it.
Maybe life isn’t about waiting for something to make it feel worth living. Maybe it’s about taking something from the cycle. Stealing moments. Creating meaning where there is none. If the seasons are going to change regardless of me, then I’ll make damn sure I matter within them.
Maybe that’s why I’m here. Not to just watch the world turn, but to carve something into it. Even if it’s just a whisper, a scar, a memory that outlasts me.
Because if nothing matters, then everything matters…
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