So little of me seems to be holding on throughout the day. I’ve completely numbed myself out to be here. Is this really the only road to the place I want to reach. It’s so fucking boring. I hate showing up and working for someone I do not care about. I hate that my life is confined to a schedule. I hate that I’m chained to the place I call home by a thing called rent. To me it feels like there is no escape from this place and it’s killing me. I know there is an escape. I just have to craft it out myself. I can’t depend on anyone or anything to get me out of this. I can only depend on myself. If I don’t have myself then nobody does and nobody will. So gather whatever is left of you and keep moving. You got somewhere to be don’t you?
There’s a quiet kind of death in doing something you don’t believe in. I feel it in my bones each morning. It’s not the work that drains me—it’s the meaninglessness of it. Every task feels like a layer of armor I never asked to wear. I numb myself just to endure it, just to blend in, just to survive. But somewhere inside me, a voice still screams. It hasn’t given up. Not yet.
I know this isn’t it. It can’t be. This life built around bills and calendars and clock-in times—it’s not the destination. It’s just a detour. A proving ground. And I have to remind myself: no one is coming to get me. No system is going to hand me freedom. If I want out, I have to carve the tunnel myself. Through every wall. Through every numb, bitter hour.
So I gather what’s left. The scraps of energy, the fragments of hope. I pull them into my chest like firewood and I start walking. Not because I feel like it. But because I must. Because there’s something out there worth crawling toward. A life that fits the shape of my soul. And if I don’t go now—if I don’t build it myself—I’ll die here. Piece by piece. And that can’t happen. Not yet.
