Dreaming keeps me steady. It’s like breathing for my mind. I’ve read all the theories, but theories never capture the weight of what a dream leaves behind. It’s not the images or the story—it’s the feeling that stays. It reaches some part of me that words can’t. Maybe that’s selfish, to live in something that’s not real, but it’s the only way I know how to hold on to what I can’t explain. Sometimes I think dreams don’t lie—they just refuse to explain themselves.
But trying to be happy, honestly, sometimes feels pointless. Because if chasing what lights me up ends up hurting the people I care about, then what’s the cost? How do you find peace when your joy causes someone else’s pain? I know who I am by the choices I make, even the ones that feel impossible. And the truth is, I’m good at fixing people. Just not myself. I never asked for this part of me, and yet it’s here, shaping everything. Maybe that’s it—fixing others is easier than facing your own cracks.
I’ve been called cold, manipulative, even cruel. And yeah, some of that’s true, sometimes. But people get tired. I get tired. I don’t like pretending to be someone I’m not. I never wanted to manipulate anyone. If anything, when I let my guard down, I’m probably more open than most. But openness doesn’t mean it’s clean or easy. Honesty isn’t pretty. It’s just the only art I still trust.
I like making problems—puzzles, logical knots—because I want to understand them, not because I want to hurt anyone. And somehow, the people I’m drawn to are always already taken. Maybe I’m trying to prove I’m worth the chase, even to myself. It’s selfish, I know. But I never meant to damage anything. Maybe the ego only knows how to measure worth by chasing what it can’t have.
Helping people has never been about being seen as good. I don’t care about praise. I help because I need to prove—to myself, mostly—that I can. I want to see how far I can go, what I can figure out. It’s always been about testing my own limits. And maybe that’s the mask: self-worth disguised as generosity.
When people start leaning on me too much, I don’t flinch. I take it. Maybe because solving problems has always been my addiction. Teaching gives me that same fix—the debates, the questions, the chaos when someone throws something unexpected at me. It makes me feel alive, like I’m in a fight I never had a chance to win or lose before. Maybe that’s what teaching really is: arguing with the universe through someone else’s voice.
People think I’m confident. I act like I am. But honestly? It’s a mask. A thin one. Underneath it, I don’t believe in myself much. Compliments don’t land. I analyze them, break them down. Were they being nice, or was that sarcasm? Validation feels like something I borrow, not something I own. And maybe that’s why I chase it. Confidence, I’ve learned, is often the loudest lie we tell ourselves.
When things get messy, I know I’m the common denominator. I’m the thread. I bring people into my chaos, even if I never meant to. Their reactions? They make sense. The guilt I carry? That’s mine alone. I’ve never hurt anyone I loved—not intentionally. I protect them, even when it breaks me. But guilt has a way of clinging to you. It’s the shadow you cast with your own hands.
Everyone deserves kindness—not the polite kind, but the kind that costs you something. I don’t always get things right, but I know what’s true for me. I’m not someone else’s problem. I push myself to grow, to laugh without pretending, to teach with purpose. Maybe kindness is just the quiet rebellion we offer to a world that forgot how to care.
Writing this now, it fills a gap I didn’t know I’d been circling for days. There’s no one on the other end of this. No audience, no applause. Just me trying to hear myself think. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. Sometimes the loudest conversations happen in silence.
I don’t want to relive this story again. I want clarity, the kind that doesn’t shake under pressure. I want love that doesn’t feel like a gamble. I want to know what’s right, and more importantly, I want to do it. This isn’t goodbye to anyone—just to the version of me that kept trying to outrun the noise. September still means something. It always will. Goodbyes aren’t endings—they’re just punctuation marks in sentences we haven’t finished.
And maybe, finally, this is me choosing something else. Choosing to see the good in the hard parts. Choosing to put the guilt down, even if just for a while. Choosing to hold on to whatever hope I have left. Because sometimes, hope is the stubborn light that won’t go out—even in the darkest room.
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