I'm going to quit cold turkey. Rip the Band-Aid off, see what's lying underneath. I have this nasty habit of waking up and checking my phone immediately, going through my notifications, my heart racing, as if that one thing that will change everything is waiting for me there. One email with that job I want. Forty comments saying what a good artist I am. But they're not there, so I turn off my phone and stare at the ceiling.

See, I am corrupt. Easy as that. If I appreciate everyone's support, and I do, why am I not content with what I have? Why do I want more? By this logic, I must be a bad person. Selfish, ungrateful. Some days I come to accept my nature; others I rebel with every fiber of my being. Don't feed the beast. But how am I supposed to resist the temptation? It feels nice to feed it. It feels great to put all your self-worth into what a stranger thinks of your work, not the human behind it. I'm nothing more than a machine most days.

What do people want of me? I'm not interested in creating just for numbers' sake, even though it might look like I do. Maybe this illusion of me is beyond saving, and I just need to put it out of its misery. They say stagnation is death, after all.

It's 8 AM, and the loop has repeated once more, but at least now I'm writing about it, questioning it. The problem doesn't lie in feeling lost, I would say. I know who I am when no one's watching. It is the damn phone. One of these days I'm going to chuck it out the window, drown it in the sea. I fantasize about the ways I could destroy the one thing that has destroyed me. For now, I'll just keep it in another room entirely. Feel like a loser. Let it rip through me. Maybe that's all I need.

I love getting drunk and doing what I normally forbid myself from doing, like listening to Taylor Swift. Sadly, I’m a Taylor Swift drunk. I feel alive at this very moment, thinking about August, my birthday. Fire baby, daughter of the Sun.

What planet rules each month? I search on Google. My mom used to point to the sky when I was little and tell me that the red dot I could barely see was Mars, most visible during the summer. Seems like she was wrong, because I can’t see it anymore. That naivety is gone.

Every year I tell myself to lower my expectations, to stop treating this season as some divine gift—the one thing that will change it all, cure this melancholy. But I can’t. I love being alive. Leo Sun, Aries Moon, Sagittarius Rising. I want to do it all, see it all.

What’s waiting for me out there, fearless heart, that I have yet to grasp? I wish for what is forbidden to me. The breeze in my hair when I ride my scooter to work, all the sights, every life intertwined with mine. Let me stay here forever.

Can you answer my prayers? Can you read my thoughts? Am I just a speck to you? Is someone up there, indifferent to me? Give me a sign. A shooting star is enough.

I’ll pray for my happiness. I won't waste it. But what will that look like? Do I have it already, and I’m just blind to it? Should I ask for something else? But what else is there, if not that?

One just passed, as bright as it was fast. I point my finger to the sky and trace it. Everything seems so small, so pointless, compared to this. I wish for a life that seems as distant as those stars. I wish, and I wish, and I wish.

If we're made from dust, and to dust we shall return, then I wish to go up there, become one, answer the prayers of someone in need. I'm tired. I want to sleep. Heavy eyelids, and they still keep coming. I don't want to miss a thing.

Coming to terms with the fact that I'll never be able to form the deep connections I seek, that no one will know the real me like I do. But see, I digress. It's pretentious, self-sabotaging, to assume others won't be able to. It's ingrained in our wiring—the wish to be seen and understood. It all comes down to that. Cells interlinked.

So the more you hide, the greater the need. Sometimes I get the urge to spill my guts and just merge it all into one, caution to the wind, but it's just too dangerous—my softest parts on the altar, as if begging for the knife. I don't want to get hurt. Is life just a self-fulfilling prophecy?

I've been wearing my real skin much more lately, though, and it feels good. Halcyon days. But I can't help but think that this division within myself won't stop growing teeth, and how am I supposed to keep it all contained, categorized? They bleed into each other. Interlinked.

Wish I had the answers I long for in all of these blank documents. Maybe I just need to take the plunge, try, belly exposed, and still expect a hand instead of a knife. There's a whole world waiting out there for the brave. Am I up for the challenge? I think I am.

The words won't stop. What used to take two weeks now takes days, reduced to a span of hours. I think about anything and everything. Where are all the ants that used to come in the birth of summer? Is this hobby of mine profitable? How big of an ego do I have to think I could become an author, anything more than what I currently am?

I must sound like a madman. I feel like one, if we're honest. Or maybe I don't. Maybe I let myself believe I do, induced by societal pressure, instead of seeing this for what it actually is. My mind on paper.

I can go really fast. Every thought at freight-train speed. This. That. Or I can go slow, slower, let us float into my stream of consciousness, wondering how long I'll be able to keep myself awake so I can get some semblance of control over my life before I inevitably lose it all tomorrow morning. The cycle repeats, and the ouroboros devours itself once more.

I want to go slow, feel its embrace like a lover's. It must be all this heat that has me all twisted into knots. My eyes are growing heavy, though I want to keep writing. Sucks, to have a body. I'm going into that deep night now. Sleep well.

I want, and I want, and I want. Whatever it is that I want, I don't know yet. My blood is warm, but it has no taste. It used to. The small cut on my thumb reminds me I have a body filled to the brim. Everything is in order. I'm a well-oiled machine. Blood overflows, and it surprises me because I'm not used to seeing what lies underneath, always up but never down.

When I ask my friend for a Band-Aid and check the cut some hours later, I find it's no longer bleeding, so I'm back to square one. The real me is no longer here. I want to kiss my partner. Let him suck on my blood and ask if he finds some taste to it. Metallic or sweet?

I still want so much. It's overwhelming some days, so I read and I wish until I'm someone somewhere (someone?) else, unbridled, wanton. It makes me want to hide, makes me want to run. Veiled, shielded. But I never do. Wanting, yearning, wishing, desiring. All one and the same. Guess I can't stop wearing my heart on my sleeve.

This text is incomprehensible. Delete.

It's 1:11 AM. The heat is unbearable, and the flag above my bed waves incessantly, fueled by all the fans working overtime. I'm operating in a state bordering on mania. Wanting to peel off my skin and run. Stranger with no nation, no one's son and no one's daughter. What do you call the feeling? I don't belong to the world.

Everything blurs. Nothing seems tangible. If I close my eyes and focus, I could reduce my mass to dust, an incorporeal being. Sometimes I wonder if we're the sum of our sensations and not our thoughts. They are tangible. They are real. Let the pain rip, and you'll feel alive. The eternal fight.

I cheat myself out of things that make me feel good. I stalk people on the internet. I write one line, then spend ten minutes on Twitter, scrolling through music bots and miserable walls of text. I arrive late to places. I like waking up two hours before work, just to stare at a screen so I can feel like myself. I like the color pink. Seeing someone cry makes me cry. I tend to listen to the same playlists over and over again. I miss my brother, and I wish him the best. I’m listening to K.Flay right now. I like to start games and never finish them. I daydream all the time that I’m a cooler person, that everyone admires me. In them I’m a dancer, a DJ, a good singer, I dress cool. I feel like a loser most days, then act like I’m the hottest shit either way.

I have an addictive personality. I still don’t know how to braid my hair. I rely on Blender too much when drawing. I like guns and violence, especially sniper rifles. I have a scar on my lip that I got when six-year-old me decided to wear my mother’s heels. I feel too fat. I look too sweet. But I like it, too. I feel pretty.

On that topic, I’m paranoid about being vain. I have, like, 10,000 pictures of my face on Google Photos. Worrying. I don’t know how to take my own advice. I’m a mess in social settings. I can’t be alone with someone without making it awkward. I need a few drinks to loosen up. Bad combo with that personality of mine. I’m afraid of needles, and of my dog dying. I cry when I think about it.

I miss my friends, but I avoid them at the same time. I constantly feel the urge to run. I’m very petty and competitive. And a bitch. I don’t remember my childhood, nor my teenage years. I remember my childhood friends, though. I miss them too, sometimes. I want to go back. I want to play Cooking Mama and Animal Crossing under the covers, hide my DS under the pillow when my mom checks on me.

I complain too much about anything and everything. It makes me realize I might be annoying. I don’t like movies people on Twitter think are good. I guess I like this website, and this blog. Do you like it? Do you like me? Which persona? Do you feel like you know me better now? How does that make you feel? I could be lying. Am I?

I’m at peace, but it feels wrong. Maybe it’s the heat of summer, the induced lethargy ripping through me, my hormones and my sleep patterns all messed up. The dog days.

I was thinking, just shy of a revelation, that ultimately I’m really glad I left freelancing behind. It was unsustainable. My paycheck came in today, and I still have some money to spare after paying rent. Imagine my surprise. Being able to breathe in this aspect has given my nervous system a much-needed break, hence all of this.

Now that I’m not the artist, who am I? I’ve been struggling with this question for a while, since I’ve never met this version of myself before. Ten years of work under my belt already, but am I enough? If I don’t contribute something to the world, do I deserve a spot in it? And if this is good for me, why does it feel so hollow?

This isn’t me. This is not who I’m meant to be. I’m not a believer in the mentality that things have to be difficult in order to feel like you’re moving forward, but God, if I don’t believe it now. This complacency is sickening. Take me behind the barn and just shoot me already if I’m meant to live a life where I can’t pursue art. I pray for my colleagues, and I envy their strength. May they always remain resilient in this cruel world.

Will I have to sacrifice my peace to pursue this craft? For now, I’ll enjoy the slow days, but I want to come back stronger than ever, ready to tackle any obstacle. I won’t be defeated. There’s nothing in this world I desire more than to create, even if no one sees. I want to leave a mark on the world. Fuel for the soul.

Bad habits are to be overcome by suffering through the feelings they may arouse. Rebuild everything, like healing a broken bone. If I'm envious of someone's ability—say, writing or painting—I will engage with their work as much as possible and force myself to feel all those ugly things, so rotten. I might be cheating myself out of a moving piece of art if I don't. Same with anything else.

I'm full of envy—of contempt, anger, and judgment—but it does not define me. Faulty foundations. Blow the whole house down, then. To smithereens. I won't be a slave to the darkness of human nature. Choices are what shape a person, and I trust myself to choose well.

I shall feel all this repugnance. It will make me stronger, wiser. If something does not serve you, then you must get rid of it, and the only way out is through. Let it rip through you, and let yourself choose love in the end. After all, you cannot compete with me, for I want you to win too. I love you.

I think I need to be a stranger for a while. Shed this persona, the things that don't serve me. I fantasize about no one knowing me, observing but never engaging. Do snipers dream the same dreams? If this has become a rotten thing, what am I to do but leave this corpse behind and find a new body to haunt? Maybe I could try it for a while, see how it fits. Isn't that fascinating? The power and the freedom to be whoever you want to be.

I feel like I've been at it for so long that the line has blurred. I know who I am and who I want to be, but is that what I truly desire? Are my wishes pure? Have I built this on a faulty foundation? Perception is a double-edged sword, and it's been ten years already. Am I to be the artist every living moment? I tire of it. How do you perceive me? Who am I to you? Why am I so conscious of every gaze?

I’ll free myself from these shackles. Embrace whatever it may bring.

At the risk of sounding insufferable, I think I’ve been doing worse lately. That’s what you get when you think you have everything figured out at the age of 27. Every time I saw those images saying recovery was more of a rollercoaster than a steady line, I used to think that wouldn’t be my case, but lo and behold. Here we are.

No amount of wanting to get better will keep you safe from those bad days. I keep carrying this melancholy inside of me that I can’t seem to shake off, no matter what I do. How I wish I could return to that beautiful naivety of being a child, fresh eyes with a fresher heart. The older you get—the more you live—the more hopeless it gets. There’s so much evil in this world, so much injustice. How can anyone bring more souls into this place in good faith? Isn’t that selfish?

I came here with tears in my eyes because there’s no other place that feels this peaceful. It’s just me and the blank document. I can say whatever I want or need. Gentle whispers to the void. It brings me great comfort that no one reads these, or at least that’s what I like to think. I’ve been struggling with the thought of sharing them, but ultimately I decided against it. Why would I do that? So I feel seen? So I don’t feel alone? What kind of comfort can being seen bring me? Cheap thrills. It won’t change a thing in the end.

In any case, if you do read these, then it fills your little voyeuristic needs too. We’re all happy, then. How does it make you feel? Are you sad? Do you regret having this knowledge about a stranger on the internet?

I feel so lost—trapped in a hell of my own making, the maze of my mind. It’s all such a drag. Every day I eat the same kind of food, dress the same, sit in front of the same kind of games. (Ha!) But even then, I still think this is just another test. To find my way out, I must go through the pain and hardship of a life I do not want—a life I do not deserve nor aspire to.

It’s only when you’re at the bottom that you find your own strength, that you truly find yourself. I must be desperate so that the flame of resilience can kindle. That is determination. Even if I have to go through the monotony of daily life for another ten years, deep in my heart I sing the same song: I will not accept a life I do not deserve. I won’t live through the pain of regret, the biggest of sins. When I look back upon my life, I won’t do it through sad eyes or broken lenses. I must keep going. I must try.

I wear my mask so well. Perfect fit over my face, my soul. From a distance, you could never tell. A tightrope walker. I feel the crushing sensation of mania washing over me, but I keep my face neutral, my body in check. Functional. That's what the world needs me to be.

I've learned how to keep everything in check so I can keep moving forward, but the mask is still a mask. Sometimes I wish I could crash and burn just to experience the feeling. I've been marked with the sign of the devil. There's no hope for me. Something is going to happen, sooner or later. Impending doom.

However I decide to act when it happens—and it will—is in my hands. This made me so fucking angry. Why am I like this? I deserve to exist. I deserve to take space, to be greedy. This is now survival. Either I take the necessary steps to be free, or I'll be done for.

And that—that—might be the source of that impending doom feeling. My mind is screaming at me to do something. And you better fucking do it. I'll be very angry at myself if I reread this entry in a couple of months and nothing's changed. So if all that positive mumbo jumbo won't keep me alive, then rage will. Here I go.

Without art, I think I would be dead. Today I felt that pull again, and it made me so scared I came running to Google Docs with the need to pour everything out into the void. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s something that no therapy or years of rewiring can fix. It’s something very primal. Fighting against it is futile, like trying to go against the flow of time—or death. It comes and goes in waves, a flash of something ominous crossing my mind.

My only cure is art. Nothing has meaning unless I'm pouring all my soul into something. What else am I supposed to do? One day I'll die, and I'll bring nothing but my bones and my skin and my blood with me. Isn't our purpose here to leave a mark for generations to come? The connection to other human beings through art. An antidote for the lonely and the misunderstood. Comfort for the brave and the tenacious.

What's the meaning of life? Am I to die a warrior's death? Will I ever find comfort, or meaning, in something else? I struggle with these thoughts so much. I just can't wrap my head around it. What does the future have in store for me? Do I play a part in it? I can't help but think about the 27 Club, but beating that curse doesn't bring me comfort either.

I know once I turn 28 I'll keep struggling—for most of my life, really. Maybe one day I'll learn how to make that pit less hungry, more tamed. Background noise instead of a pull. I have to remember that even if nothing has meaning, maybe a life filled with art does. Maybe that's the only reason we're here, then.

I pray that I can keep doing this for as long as I can, that I'm free enough to express myself. And if one day I can no longer do it, that I have the strength necessary to overcome the pain. I have faith in me.

There's this pit inside of me that's ever-growing, and nothing seems to satiate it, no matter what I do. You might think we will go the misery route; we won't. I don't know what word would describe it best, but for now I'll stay with hunger. But hunger for what? The blessings my career is receiving would send a younger me into a fucking coma. I still can't believe so many people support me, and that people I admire enjoy my work. What do they see? Do people look up to me as I look up to others? It feels like I'm on a never-ending ladder. Can I get down? I guess I'll have to live with the mystery those questions bring.

I just—I can't be sated. I need to keep pushing, and pushing, and pushing. I can't enjoy a good thing because it doesn't feel enough. Am I really so disconnected from reality? Is humbleness a blessing, or a curse? Why do I always have to push myself for more? Am I enough? My confidence is like Schrödinger's cat. I'm a prisoner of my own making, a gladiator fighting against made-up opponents. There's nothing I can do but create and doubt. They go hand in hand. Maybe that's just how it goes, and how it always will be.

But I shouldn't be this harsh. I should try and revel in my blessings. I should cherish every single moment of this borrowed life. I should break away from this capitalistic mindset of becoming it. Perfectionism is a tick that feeds off the mind.

If I want to break free, I must be imperfect. Once I'm imperfect, I won't be afraid to screw up. And once I'm not afraid, I will allow myself to count my blessings—a soul reborn. Is my hunger due to my lack of confidence? Is that why I feel like I must keep proving myself every single time? It's a great way to improve, that's for sure. But when does it stop? Just how deep into the pit will I find myself before it's too late? Is it fear, then? Fear of disappointing my heroes?

I will break through. Even if I've got to keep wondering just a little more. I want to be someone who's confident enough to create and doubt, but not fear.

It's 1 AM once again, and I've been thinking about the future. It feels weird to say I've been doing less and less of that lately. Maybe it's because I've got some of my confidence back.

So, the future. I've been thinking about our generation and how we're the torchbearers now. It's our time to change things, our time to live with passion in our hearts and freedom in our spirits. Kindness and strength, empathy and love. I think about the Artemis II mission—all those Earth photos they released—and my heart swells with joy. Isn't our home beautiful? We must always remember what we're fighting for.

But doesn't it feel like a Herculean task? The world's been pretty dark lately. Not that it ever was bright, but I fear we're reaching a breaking point. It's not a matter of if, but when. Will we be ready?

My mind also goes to that absurd question our parents ask when we're little kids: what do you want to be when you grow up? As if we have all the answers already. Do their hearts also swell with joy at the sight of naive dreams? With my 27 years and feeling more lost than I ever was at 5, I think I have the answer.

I think… I want to be a human being, with all that carries. I don't claim to have all the answers, but I'm fairly confident in something: if nothing makes sense anymore, the root of our existence will be our cornerstone. In these absurd times, I will stay kind and human. That's all. It's time to bring the new era.

I’ve reached the conclusion that to be a great artist, you have to be submissive, in a way. When being presented with feedback, you have to let go of your ego—all your denial and defensiveness—and soak in all the criticism that will push you forward. You’re nothing more than a piece of clay, being shaped by the greats into something new. I always come back to this scene in Tarkovsky’s Stalker when I think about these things:

When a tree grows, it is soft and pliable. But when it is dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death’s companions. Flexibility and softness are the embodiment of life. That which has become hard shall not triumph.

There’s no bigger vulnerability than an artist’s. You get to be great by allowing yourself to be shaped and accepting that, sometimes, it will be painful. Is it submissiveness, then? I know you have to fight for your own vision too, but to me, that’s something that should walk hand in hand with your submission. Every time I’ve asked a friend for feedback, what I was working on ended up improving dramatically, so there’s something to gain from that sting.

Could we also say that it is an act of masochism in itself? At least in those early stages, when you’re still learning how to be still as the knife is being driven right through you. Ouch. I’m not even going to talk about fear, because we all know fear brings nothing good. There’s no space for fear in improvement. The only way out is through.

I’m slowly learning how to be more vulnerable, as I’m tired of living in a safe zone. I’m still very young, and I have hope that if I learn to live with an open heart, great things will come. It’s funny. Here I am, talking about these things as if I don’t struggle with them. There’s a saying in Spanish that goes: consejos vendo y para mí no tengo—or “do as I say, not as I do.” That’s my life motto.

I feel like a passenger in a car crash, all in slow motion. I can see the other car coming from a distance, but I can't do anything about it. Whoever's driving isn't listening. Their face is obscured, as well as mine. I can only see a maniacal glint in their eyes, but it's just that—a glint. Maybe I am the one driving—body and mind separated. But who's who? Is my mind the one on a suicidal mission? Is my body the one getting all the warning signs?

In the end, it doesn't matter. We're going to crash anyway. My body is petrified, and my eyes are glued to the oncoming car. There's nothing I can do about it. The whisper at the back of my head foretold all of this, and maybe—just maybe—there's still time to take the wheel and get us off the road, but my body just won't move. Is this paralyzing fear, then? Fear of what I'm about to lose? But I'm not afraid of dying—I usually crave the peace it could bring. Is this how deer feel when they see those ominous headlights? Do they know they're about to die?

What am I to do? If I know I'm about to crash, why can't I stop the car? Maybe my intuition is just wrong. Maybe my eyes are deceiving me, and the other car isn't in our path. Or maybe our driver just loves crashing into cars because that's all they've known all their life. Either way, there's no winning in this situation. If I crash, I'll curse myself for not having prevented it. If I don't crash, I'll have gone through the agony of knowing I could've crashed, and our driver will keep looking for cars to crash into.

What a joke. Sometimes I want to curse this intuition of mine. I pray the road is empty this time.

I get so easily lost in this melancholy of mine. I feel like I betray myself over the smallest things, too. I want to run at every given chance—run to the woods to never be seen again. Lie in a field of tall grass, hidden away. I guess I must be the avoidant archetype.

I would love to be able to express all the things I feel—how I see the world, how I watch the sky out of my window. To feel understood, feel seen, feel connected. But at the same time, I get so overwhelmed by it. Once someone gets a peek, I feel the urge to run. There's the betrayal. I'll never be satisfied.

My safety and control are sacred, but if you want to feel truly seen, you need to sacrifice those things. Is that why I want to run? Am I to be stuck in this cycle forever? In a way, I'm already sacrificing those things by publishing these excerpts. These are controlled peeks behind the curtain, though—but peeks nonetheless. So voyeuristic.

I feel unfocused, although unfocused wouldn't be the right word. I am focused, but not on the right thing. I am on the path to my destination, but my previous footsteps have been erased. If I look back on that path, I can't see where I came from. The start seems so distant that the only thing I can do now is… walk.

Yet my focus is blurred. I know what I have to do—that if I keep my senses sharp and my mind clear, I'll get what I want, with no fear nor doubt. Every mishap is a lesson to be learned, a subtle reminder to focus. I shan't get distracted by inconveniences, nor dive into the ocean that they are, for it will be too late once I try to reach the surface.

Like lifting a veil, my intuition guides my steps forward. I need to remember what's important—to focus. Birds of prey come to mind. Focus, purpose, intention. I won't get distracted. And if I do, I trust myself to redirect my mind toward my goal.

It's in your hands to remember your guiding light, your North Star. Your happiness depends on it, and you wouldn't want to disappoint yourself, right? For your happiness is the main prize, and it comes from the fruits of your work. So you need to focus on what's important. Trust, don't fear. And focus.

I can't stop fantasizing about getting a bike. Every time I go to work, I have to take the subway, and there’s an open portion of the journey where I get to see the river and all the dirt paths surrounding it. I can’t stop thinking about me getting lost there, music blasting, with the wind on my back. It might be escapism, now that I think about it. But what am I trying to escape from? The harshness of reality? I’ve already made my peace with the knowledge that we live in a slave system, so that won’t be it.

Is it because subconsciously I’m not happy with my current life? I know I want bigger things for myself—and I will get them, for I get what I desire—but my current life is pretty good… right? Younger me wouldn’t even believe me if I told her how strong I am right now, and how much I’ve fought for this. How much I’ve grown, too—me and my art. All the spotlight, the recognition from my heroes. But I guess I want even more, for I’m never fully satisfied. My ambition and aspirations are unstoppable.

I want to be free to do what I want to do, create what I want to create, say what I want to say. I have so much potential in front of me, and I know I’ll reach all my dreams if I let this hunger of mine drive me forward. This is the freedom I want. Is that why I want to get a bike? After all, a bike gives you the liberty to go wherever you want to go. Maybe the answer is that I just want to be free—from judgment, from expectations, from stares. You don’t have to pretend in nature. I can get lost in the trees and my ideas. The solitude of nature captivates me. I’ve started crying while thinking about it.

Kind of ironic that I can’t get a bike because I can’t afford one at the moment, so back to the rat race. For now, I’ll have to keep taking the subway and daydreaming.

I should be sleeping right now to at least be rested enough for work tomorrow, but I'm in the middle of this weird, manic feeling, so I might as well journal a bit and pray that I fall asleep midway through writing this. Finding the time to write has been kind of a challenge lately. Pair that with the fact that I arrive home so damn tired that my brain isn't functional at all, and there you have it. The perfect combo to have this place abandoned. I don't want that, though.

I'm glad to report that I finally have a job on something that isn't art-related, just like I wanted! It still makes me feel weird—almost disconnected from reality, in a way—but I guess that feeling will go away the more I keep doing it. I don't want to say it is a betrayal to my dreams and aspirations because I still very much plan on pursuing them, but sometimes I attribute that weird feeling to that. I want to make it very clear that art is an incredibly important part of my life and the reason I'm still here, but tough times call for tough decisions. This job is also giving me the freedom to explore a new side of my art, freed from the shackles of capitalism, so that's a win, I guess. It will take time to change my mindset around how I interact with my work and social media, but we will get there. Trust.

I would also love to talk about time and patience in another entry. Having to completely change how I approach my days due to this job is helping me learn to take things slowly, all in due time. There's no rush now, no planning left to do. Being a social media artist will destroy your mindset around patience, but I'm slowly rebuilding it.

So, yeah. I'm actually really happy! Not in an “at least I'm not dead” way, but actual joy. We'll see how things unfold, because in this crazy world you just never know, but I'm hoping I keep this job for as long as I need! My dreams of working in a game studio are still there, though. I won't say names—bad luck to do so—but they're engraved in my heart. We will get there one step at a time. They will come true.

(PSA: I did fall asleep while writing this.)

I really admire people who, despite their pain and their fear, still decide to chase their dreams, as foolish as they may seem. I get choked up thinking about it, because it's something I really struggle with. Fear still has its claws on me, and although I'm finally taking slow steps to overcome it, the prospect of me finally achieving everything I've ever wanted still feels so distant.

Fear is the absence of confidence. It's like a poison. I really wish someone had told me that once you let even the littlest bit in, it won't stop—it will never stop unless it's dealt with in time. It's a greedy creature, one that will take you down with it if you're not careful enough. I wasn't careful enough.

So to combat fear, you have to embrace confidence. Fake or real, it doesn't matter. I'm no visionary, but it feels like the only logical solution. If you believe, you achieve. Fear is rational, so you have to be irrational. Let's be irrational in this rational world. Let us believe, let us dream, let us wish. Rationality is the mind-killer. When death comes, what else will remain?

I'm afraid of regret, and if I keep living in fear, it will become true. I shall not live a life in fear. I shall embrace whatever comes with an open mind and an open heart. I shall believe. I shall live. This world is absurd, so we must rebel by living with passion in our spirits. Once we embrace that fact, we will achieve true freedom, and fear will just be a passerby. Be confident and dream.

When 11:11 arrives, I usually dedicate that minute to praying. I'm not a religious person in the traditional sense, but I'm spiritual and believe in external forces beyond our reach or comprehension. There must be something out there—something inexplicably magical and bizarre that serves as a veil, weaving into our reality. For me, it shows in the rainbows, in the warmth of the sun and the stillness of nature. It shows in physics and numbers, in intuition and fortune.

I know that if this is true, then I wouldn't need 11:11 as the only moment in the day to experience it, but I like to think that if many people gather to manifest at that exact moment, the bigger the chance we have of our wish being granted. The power of human consciousness.

That way, you also feel connected to other humans out there—still wanting and wishing. Isn't it fascinating, knowing we lead lives so mechanical and rigid, that we still pray to forces out of our control? When everything comes crashing down, we still beg for relief from something we cannot touch nor see. Is it because religion has been ingrained into our society for centuries? And if religion isn't the answer, what is? When we're stripped down to our bones, what else is there? Do we return to where we came from? Is that why we wish on shooting stars?

The prayer comes from the soul, and it is always about happiness. I pray for my own joy, to stay as true to myself as possible. A prayer is a wish, and when I do, I think of Andréi Tarkovsky’s Stalker. I shall never wish for something false. My wish must stay true. My soul is aligned with it.

But when I catch myself wishing at that hour, my logical side appears. Why do I pray, and to whom? If the answers are deep within me—the resilience I carry—why do I still need to wish for them?

It also happens when I pray to my own version of God, and I always end up thinking that God isn't there to talk back or to grant us all we need like the omnipotent being we like to believe He is. God, in a way, is ourselves. It's like lifting a veil or looking into a mirror. The answer will always be inside us, where many things bloom. It's always up to us to make the change. So if talking to God or making a wish at 11:11 helps us realize what we need, then so be it.

Sometimes I wish I could just disappear into the sea. I'm deathly afraid of the blue void there, but it must be comforting in a way. Do we yearn to float aimlessly because it reminds us of the womb? Is it the lack of external stimulus?

I've always been fascinated by it. When things get rough, I imagine myself sitting at the shore, looking out at the horizon. The only sound is the coming and going of the waves. The wind blows mildly. There's nothing but the sea and me. I can stay there as much as I want and need; nothing else exists. Neither pain nor sorrow, happiness nor satisfaction. You just… are. It's the closest place to heaven on earth. And with time, you can find comfort in the knowledge that whatever might happen, the waves will come and go until the very end. It's one of life's many constants.

How I miss the warm sand under my feet. Or the sun blazing down, uncaring. I miss summer so much. Winter is cruel. Summer cradles you into her arms with a lover's embrace. It makes you feel alive—like the sea and its water. It is connected to the divine. If there's one thing that makes us all equal, the answer is water.

I'll enjoy the beach as much as I can this year, that I promise.

It’s midnight and I’m thinking about life again.

I’ve finished watching the first episode of Twin Peaks and I’m fairly invested in it, to be honest. I did it because I’ve been getting into Alan Wake a bit too much again, and as always, one thing led to another. I’m very interested in Laura Palmer’s character, from the things I’ve read over the years. I hope this show is one of those pieces of art that stick with me for the rest of my life.

My night ended with me doing the dishes again—feeling very Sisyphean—then I brushed my teeth and hopped into bed to browse social media. That’s when I saw that one picture on Tumblr that made me think. Here it is:

Stop being afraid of what could go wrong and start being excited by what could go wrong.

And man, isn’t that thrilling?

It hit me right on that fearful part of me I always carry. I’m always so submerged in it, the subconscious anxiety and need to control every little thing so that nothing—and I mean nothing—can drift from my mental plan. Call it a trauma response if you want, my therapist would agree. But still, it made me stop and think.

What if I just… let go? What if the key to finally clearing this fog—this fear of fear—was letting things go wrong, embracing chaos and pain, and learning that I have the courage and answers deep inside me to overcome whatever is thrown at me? What if life is more bearable if we let ourselves feel the worst outcome even while fearing it?

Because a life in fake peace is boring, a twisted vision of calm that morphs into isolation. It can destroy you from the inside just like chaos would. You live in that sweet, mind-numbing bubble—and while yes, you do live in peace, you also shut yourself off from a million different paths that could’ve guided you to a better life.

But I do understand that no one is some sort of clairvoyant (or maybe there’s someone out there who is, who knows) and that there’s an infinity of lives you will never live. Still, it’s time to let ourselves be open to the pain that will bring us a better tomorrow.

Life really isn’t fun through clear waters.