October 27, 2025 began like a clean slate quiet, promising, almost hopeful. The kind of morning that tricks you into believing today might be different. That maybe, just maybe, the weight you carry won't drag you under. I woke up with that fragile illusion wrapped around me like a thin blanket, warm but easily torn. For a moment, everything felt right. Balanced. Normal.
And then, with a single word maybe my own, maybe someone else's the illusion shattered. Not dramatically, not with thunder or fire, but quietly, like glass cracking under invisible pressure. In that instant, I knew. Not that the world had turned against me, but that something inside me was off-kilter. Broken. Misaligned. It wasn't the universe. It was me. Again.
I tried to look in the mirror not the physical one, but the internal kind. The one that reflects your soul, your intentions, your worth. What I saw wasn't anger or sadness, but something worse: emptiness. A hollowed-out version of myself, worn thin by repetition, by resignation, by the quiet erosion of hope. An uncontrollably wasted soul, drifting through motions without meaning.
I don't want to keep talking badly about myself. I truly don't. There's a part of me that's tired of the self-loathing, tired of the spiral, tired of feeling like I'm watching life through fogged glass while everyone else dances in the sunlight. But what else is there to say when your thoughts keep circling the same drain? When every attempt to rise feels like pushing against gravity made of lead?
Still, the day went on. Because it always does. Time doesn't pause for internal collapse. So I moved. I went to the mall not because I wanted to, but because staying still felt like surrender. And maybe, just maybe, being around people would trick my brain into feeling human again.
Then it rained. Not a gentle autumn shower, but a full-blown cyclone wild, chaotic, relentless. Most people ran for cover. I walked right into it. Hehehe… yeah, that's me. Drenched to the bone, hair plastered to my forehead, clothes clinging like second skin. There was something freeing in it, honestly. The rain didn't care about my failures. It fell on saints and sinners alike. For a few minutes, I wasn't "me" just a body in the storm, anonymous, unburdened by identity.
On the way home, hunger hit like a freight train. Not the polite kind that whispers, "Maybe a snack?" but the primal, gnawing kind that says, "Feed me or I'll collapse." So I ate. Like I hadn't eaten in days. Like my body was trying to fill more than just an empty stomach like it was trying to patch the holes in my spirit with bread and rice and whatever was at hand.
Of course, arriving home soaked and disheveled earned me a fair share of scoldings. Concern wrapped in frustration, love disguised as anger. I nodded, apologized, didn't argue. What could I say? "Sorry I needed to feel something, even if it was just rain and hunger"? They wouldn't understand. And honestly, I don't expect them to.
Eventually, exhaustion won. Not the tiredness from walking in a cyclone or eating like a starved ghost but the deep, soul-level fatigue that comes from carrying yourself when you feel unworthy of being carried. I slept. Hard and fast, like my body had finally said, "Enough."
And now, writing this late later than I promised, later than I planned i'm left with the same old mantra echoing in my chest: Let's do this until the day I die.
It's not hopeful. It's not despairing. It's just… endurance. A quiet, stubborn refusal to stop, even when every part of you feels like static.
I know I'm only 20. Too young to feel this worn. Too young to have a niece who doesn't recognize me. Too young to look in the mirror and wonder if I look "disgusting." But time doesn't care about fairness. And pain doesn't check your age before it settles in.
Still… I remember a quote that once gave me a flicker of light: "Where there is life, there is hope." Maybe that's why I keep going not because I believe in a grand turnaround, but because as long as I'm breathing, the story isn't over. And maybe, just maybe, one day the clean slate won't crack by noon.
Until then, I'll walk through the rain. I'll eat like I deserve to be fed. I'll endure.
Because today was October 27, 2025 and I made it through.
And tomorrow?
Let's do this until the day I die.
But I hope, somewhere down the line, I learn to do it with a little more kindness toward myself.
Content Warning: The following piece contains themes of emotional distress, self-criticism, feelings of worthlessness, and existential fatigue. If you are struggling with your mental health, please consider reaching out to a trusted friend, family member, or mental health professional. You are not alone.