Notes on Existing

I have always been searching—restless, burdened by a nameless feeling, by sudden bursts of anger. There is an immense weight of experience behind it all, still waiting to be unraveled, yet I have never fully opened myself enough to translate it into words.

I remain overwhelmed by my own humanity, walking side by side with relentless self-criticism. Constantly policing myself so I won't make mistakes because, in truth, my mistakes are nothing new; they are born from the architecture of my emotional world. To make a mistake feels like losing control—something I cannot tolerate in myself, yet cannot seem to escape.

Reading through my journals, I realize I am always confessing the same things.

Therapy is an irritating process for me. I always seem to have the answers before it does. I don't want answers; I want an off switch.

I find myself wondering: how could anyone choose to be human? Is there a cure?

Whenever my thoughts drift in that direction, I return to the closing moments of Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein:

And if your heart allows it, forgive yourself so that you may exist.

As long as you live, what other choice do you have but to live?

Live.

Sometimes I wonder whether this weariness is simply that—or whether I am slowly walking toward depression. Or perhaps it is the world I inhabit: capitalism, falsehoods, the fragmented freedom I have been given, all pushing me toward an abyss from which there is no escape.

But what else can I do except live?

Writing, observing, researching, and reading have become the ways I learn to live with everything—with existence itself, with the search for self-compassion that does not become self-indulgence.

And what else is there to do?

I will keep wandering through the tangled forest of my mind, where I always begin down one path of thought, lose my way, retrace my steps, and emerge carrying something different from what I had hoped to translate. I find myself there, and I lose myself there.

Yet it is the cruelty of being that keeps me circling without ever breaking the cycle.

So I have no better answers.

I am simply here, still searching for a purpose—perhaps.