Days have been going by in that strange, slippery wayneither fast nor slow, just passing, like water leaking through cracked fingers. Every morning begins the same: a half-awake scroll through news feeds, headlines blurring into one another. War here. Another war there.
Numbers stacked on numbers, casualties reduced to statistics, cities flattened into before-and-after images. Somewhere in between, leaked files, sealed documents, whispers finally dragged into daylight Epstein, again, like an open wound the world refuses to properly clean.
And I keep asking myself the same question, over and over: why?
What do we gain from this?
What does humanity gain by protecting people who did nothing but exploit, harm, and violate children.children who hadn't even learned how cruel the world could be yet? People with money, influence, last names heavy enough to crush truth beneath them.
People who walk freely, laugh freely, age freely, while their victims are frozen at the moment something was stolen from them forever.
It's sickening. Not in a dramatic way, not in a headline wayjust a quiet, stomach-turning realization that justice, as an idea, bends easily when power leans on it.
Pedophiles. There's no softer word worth using. Dressing it up doesn't make it less ugly. And yet, time and time again, we watch as consequences evaporate the moment social standing enters the room. Courtrooms hesitate. Media pivots. Investigations stall.
And the rest of us are toldimplicitly, but clearlyto move on. To forget. To accept that this is how the world works.
"It is what it is," people say. A phrase that feels less like acceptance and more like surrender.
I don't think it's outrage alone that hurts the most. It's the helplessness. The sense that morality is optional if you're rich enough, connected enough, untouchable enough. That the system was never really built for accountabilityonly appearances.
You start wondering how deep the rot goes, how many stories were buried, how many lives quietly fractured so others could continue attending galas and giving speeches about "ethics" and "progress."
Against all that noise, college has been… fine, I guess. That's the word that keeps coming to mind. Fine. Classes happen. Assignments get submitted. Conversations drift from exams to careers to jokes that don't quite land. Everyone seems to be running toward a future they assume will be better, brighter, more stable than the present. I envy that certainty sometimes. Or maybe I just miss having it.
Physically, though, something feels off.
My body has been deteriorating a little faster than I expected. Not in a dramatic collapse, not something cinematicjust small betrayals. Fatigue that sinks deeper than sleep can fix. Pain that lingers longer than it should. A sense that recovery now demands more time, more patience, more effort than I can easily give.
Doctors' words echo vaguely in my head, half-understood, half-avoided. And soon or later… iykyk. Some things are easier left unsaid, unnamed, sitting quietly in the background like a clock you refuse to look at.
It changes how you see everything.
The news hits differently when your own body feels unreliable. The injustice of the world feels heavier when you're already tired. Anger becomes less explosive and more… dense. It settles in your chest instead of burning out quickly.
You start measuring time differentlynot in years or semesters, but in good days and bad days, in moments when your body cooperates and moments when it doesn't.
Writing used to be easier.
Not because life was kinder, but because I had the energy to wrestle with it. Lately, words feel heavier, like each sentence costs something. I want to write daily. I want to document everythingthe rage, the confusion, the numbness, the fleeting moments of hopebut some days just existing takes priority. Some days, holding yourself together quietly is the only victory available.
To anyone reading this, I'm sorry.
Sorry I couldn't show up every day the way I wanted to. Sorry for the gaps, the silences, the unfinished thoughts. Health has a way of shrinking your world without asking permission.
It doesn't announce itself loudly; it just starts taking piecesyour stamina, your consistency, your certaintyuntil you realize you're negotiating with your own limits instead of pushing past them.
Still, I'm here.
Still watching. Still thinking. Still angry, still questioning, still refusing to fully accept that cruelty and corruption are just the natural order of things. Maybe that refusal doesn't change much on a global scale. Maybe it doesn't free anyone or put anyone behind bars.
But it keeps something intact inside mea line I won't cross, a belief I won't let rot away just because others have.
I'll keep writing when I can. I'll keep updating with the best of my ability, even if that ability fluctuates. Some days the words will pour out. Other days, they'll arrive slowly, limping, imperfect. But they'll be honest.
And maybe that's all I can offer right now: honesty in a world that keeps rewarding lies, presence in a system that thrives on silence, and a voicehowever tiredthat refuses to pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn't.