I searched my reflection for some fatal flaw,
replayed every word, dissected every thought.
If I could find the reason they had gone,
perhaps I could undo what I had done.

I tried to mend the things I couldn’t save,
to resurrect the promises we made.
I held on long after they’d let go,
still searching for a reason I should know.

But days grew heavy, and nights grew long,
and I could no longer tell where I’d gone wrong.
I laughed with others, went about my days,
while something deep inside me slipped away.

I grew so tired of being strong,
of making broken things feel less than wrong.
I wanted just one moment without pain,
one breath untouched by memory or shame.

And when the hurt became too much to bear,
I searched for some escape from my despair.
No cruel deception dressed as care,
No empty vows dissolved in air.
No warmth that fades, nor love unreal,
Just relief in the teeth of the kiss of cold steel.

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I remained among the scattered cups,
the laughter curdled into something else,
a mirth grown hoarse at the edges,
a joy that had forgotten its face,
counting the weight of absent minds
in bodies too heavy to carry themselves.

One became a bundle of limbs,
another a journey through dimly lit roads,
and I, who had brought nothing to lose,
was left with everything to recollect.

I gathered the fallen hours,
folded them beneath blankets,
led the lost toward their doorways,
and watched the night surrender its guests.

By morning, the house had forgotten
the hands that had held it alive.

And so I learned how memory works:
the kindness dissolves with the dark,
but a single misstep survives the sun.

I had spent the night carrying what others could not,
and woke to find the weight was mine alone.

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I thought it a guest—
A transient thing,
A trifling malady
Of the mortal heart.
I deemed its sojourn brief,
Its tenure inconsequential,
Its eventual departure
An inevitability.

Yet grief, that most peculiar passion,
Insinuated itself
Betwixt my lexicon,
Taking dominion of the Uninscribed.
Each verse, an oblation,
Each stanza, a sepulchre,
Each silence, a testament
To that which would not perish.

And so I inscribe what I cannot inter,
A grief without grave,
A wound without burn,
Condemned to awaken wherever I dream.
For what is a poem?
But sorrow made art,
A mausoleum of the unquieted heart,
Where words give eternity to that which departs.

Who thought the world was soft and kind,
With endless dreams and peace of mind.
Who wore her heart out on her sleeve,
And trusted all that she could see.

I never knew I’d miss you so,
Or ponder on your lively glow.
With scraped-up knees and tangled hair,
Who thought of magic everywhere.

Who'd make a friend of anyone,
And race the fading evening sun.
Who'd catch fireflies in cupped-up hands,
And build her own enchanted lands.

I never knew I'd miss you so,
The girl who never feared to grow.
Who thought that time was hers to spend,
And childhood never had to end.

You'd draw your future in crayon skies,
With castles reaching past the highs.
You'd write your name in hearts and stars,
And dream of worlds beyond the yard.

I never knew I’d miss you so,
Or grieve you during times of throe.
You should have had a little more,
More birthdays, summers, open doors.

Now as the days grow into black,
I wish I could have held you back.
A razor found, a blood-soaked bath,
A shocking tear-stained epigraph

I never knew I’d miss you so
The little girl I used to know
Unfurling wings that ne’er could fly,
A vanished star in winter’s sky.

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Breathe....

Breathe.....

5

My breath, clouding in front of my face.

The trees.

The snow.

A light in the distance.

My hands. Shaking, trembling.

Breathe…

4

Ice beneath my shoes.

Bark beneath my fingertips.

Fabric twisted in my fists.

Cold against my cheeks.

Breathe…

3

The wind.

My footsteps.

A crack somewhere behind me.

Breathe…

2

Smoke.

Perfume. Faint. Fading.

Breathe…

1

The taste of copper on my tongue.

Breathe…

Again.

5

My breath rises in front of me, a pale cloud that slowly dissolves into the frozen air.

The trees stand along the edge of the clearing, their branches heavy with snow.

A light flickers beyond them, illuminating the thin column of smoke rising into the sky.

My hands tremble against my coat. I press them together, feeling the warmth of one palm against the other.

I can see the ground beneath my feet, the uneven snow, the narrow path leading between the trees.

4

The frozen ground bites my toes, penetrating the thin covering of my shoes.

The bark beneath my palm is rough, its grooves deep enough to catch the tips of my fingers.

The fabric at my wrists is damp, cold against my skin, and I pull my sleeves down over my hands.

I lean against the tree and feel its solid trunk supporting my weight. The cold seeps through my coat, but the ground remains beneath me, unmoving.

3

The wind moves through the branches overhead, shaking loose small showers of snow.

The soft crunch of snow settling beneath my shoes.

A bird calling somewhere overhead, its voice brief and clear against the wind.

I listen to each sound as it comes and goes, allowing the spaces between them to remain empty.

2

The smoke is sharp in my nose, bitter enough to make me turn my face away.

Beneath it, there is another scent. Something floral, delicate and familiar, drifting past so faintly that I almost miss it.

I breathe in again, more slowly this time.

The sweetness returns for a moment before the smoke overtakes it. I cannot quite place the feeling it leaves behind, but I recognize the scent itself. It belongs to something I knew well enough that I never imagined I might one day have to search for it.

1

The cold air tastes faintly metallic against my tongue. Or is it the air? I don’t know.

I swallow, then breathe through my nose, noticing the dryness in my mouth and the gradual easing of my jaw.

Breathe…

Again.

5

Sight:

The way her eyes softened when others looked at her, then hardened when theirs turned away.

The way her expression changed whenever a conversation stopped going her way.

The way her smile remained perfectly in place while her eyes seemed to lose all warmth.

The way my friends’ faces changed when her name entered a conversation, glances exchanged before anyone dared to speak.

The way she could look directly at me while I spoke, yet somehow make me feel as though she had never seen me at all.

4

Touch:

Her fingers closing around my wrist, holding tighter when I tried to pull away.

Her nails digging into my skin.

Her hands shoving me backward, leaving me to regain my balance while she continued speaking.

Her arms pulling me close afterward, as though an embrace could make me forget what her hands had done.

3

Sound:

The way she made every hurt I tried to explain sound trivial, as though my feelings were inconveniences I kept bringing to her door.

The way she spoke about the people I loved, planting doubts so gradually that I hardly noticed when their voices began to sound like hers.

The way she could tell me she loved me in the same breath that she made me feel impossible to love.

2

Scent:

The floral perfume that lingered in the collar of my shirt long after she had left.

The smoke, clinging to my clothes long after the flames had died; the lingering scent of all the relationships that had burned alongside ours, leaving nothing untouched by the fire.

1

Taste:

The bittersweet taste of love, still lingering on my tongue, sweet enough to make me stay, bitter enough to remind me what staying cost.

Breathe…

Still, deep beneath the frostbound ground,
No trace of spring could yet be found.
The roots kept faith with skies unknown,
And dreamed of seeds they’d never sown.

Yet winter lingered, cold and still,
And veiled the fields in frost and chill.
No tender shoot dared pierce the snow,
No sign revealed what lay below.

I saw a sweater draped over the back of a chair
outside a closed classroom,
one sleeve hanging almost to the floor
while the other had wrapped itself around the back
in a peculiar embrace.

I saw a clock hanging above a doorway,
its second hand stumbling forward
in little mechanical increments,
accompanied by a faint, persistent ticking
that seemed to grow louder
whenever the room fell quiet.
Every minute, it completed the same circle,
returning to the same twelve numbers
without ever arriving at the same moment twice.

I saw a woman
blow out the candles on her birthday cake,
her warm breath cascading over the flames
until each one surrendered to the fog.
A faint cloud of moisture
lingered above the frosting,
catching the light for a moment
before dissolving into the air.
Invisible particles scattered across the cake,
millions of microscopic organisms
carried from her mouth to the dessert
she would soon share with the people she loved.
She cut the cake, divided it into portions,
and passed it around the table,
distributing fragments of her own breath
to the people gathered to celebrate
another year of her existence.

I saw a flower, left in the rain,
its bruised petals limp against the pavement
where someone had abandoned it.
Perhaps it had once been held carefully between two hands,
offered with trembling fingers and
the quiet hope of being accepted.
Perhaps someone had spent the afternoon choosing it,
imagining the smile it might bring,
rehearsing words that seemed so much easier to say
when no one was listening.
And perhaps, when the moment finally arrived,
the flower had been accepted with an apology,
or a smile that meant nothing.
Or not at all.
Now its stem lay crooked in a dirty puddle,
and passing strangers stepped over it
without a second thought.
I wondered which was sadder:
that a flower could be so carefully
chosen and so carelessly discarded,
or that someone had once mistaken the act of giving
it for the promise of being loved.

Today I saw a dead moth resting inside a lampshade,
a little Icarus,
destroyed by the very thing that had given his flight a purpose...

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They seemed untouched by time’s decay,
As though the world had passed away.
Though death had claimed the world beyond,
Their essence lingered, pale and fond.

The hours thinned between the eaves,
Like fading light through darkened leaves.
And all that once they held as true,
Was lost beneath the morning dew.

And those who reached to pluck a rose
Soon learned what beauty seldom shows.
For what appears a gift to keep,
May wake the thorns that lie asleep.

The nearer that the hands drew nigh,
The more the treasured dream …

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Yet beneath their hues, so rich and bright,
Lay petals starved of warmth and light.
Each blossom hid a sickly tune,
Concealed beneath its rich perfume.

At last, the soil reclaimed its own,
And sealed their fate beneath the loam
The wind bore every trace away,
And left the earth in mute dismay.

I am afraid. I can feel the walls creeping closer, their ghoulish nature relishing in my fear. But it is not the walls that frighten me. It is the person. There is someone in my house, slowly but surely making their way toward the place where I huddle. Somewhere beyond my hiding place, I hear a shuffle. Then footsteps. They grow louder with each passing second, drawing nearer until I can almost feel their presence on the other side of the wall. Trembling, I press myself into the corner, certain that it is only a matter of time before they find me. But the footsteps begin to fade. I remain frozen, scarcely daring to breathe, until the silence finally returns. Only then do I gasp for air, my heart pounding like a war drum, realizing I have been holding my breath throughout the entire ordeal. It seems almost cruel, the way they torment me. They approach just close enough to make discovery feel inevitable, then retreat, only to return moments later. There was something almost perverse in the exhilaration he drew from the pursuit, as though malice and euphoria were not opposing forces within him, but inseparable companions. He seemed to find a peculiar delight in the very terror he inflicted upon others. And now, I hear them again. But this time, something is different. There are no soft footsteps, no deliberate shuffling meant to unsettle me. Instead, heavy thuds reverberate through the house, each one bringing the inevitable closer. Whatever game they had been playing is over. They are coming for me now. I force myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. For a moment, I consider remaining where I am, praying that my hiding place might somehow spare me. But the footsteps grow unbearably close, and terror finally overwhelms whatever courage I have left. I throw open the door and bolt, springing from my hiding place and fleeing the scene with a sprightliness fueled only by my own terror. The man—for I could now see his ugly rearing head—bellows in anger, throwing himself after me in gleeful pursuit. I scream as I race through the house and burst into the backyard. Beyond it lies a stretch of woods, dark and dense, offering the only possibility of escape. I scramble toward the nearest tree and begin climbing, using my smaller build to nimbly traverse the branches. From below, he watches me ascend. His eyes follow my movements with a look of almost psychotic contempt, as though my desperate attempt to survive is nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. Then he turns and disappears behind the house. For a moment, I allow myself to hope. Perhaps he has given up. Perhaps he has decided I am not worth the trouble. Perhaps, somehow, I have escaped him. But the reprieve lasts only seconds. He returns carrying an axe. A sinister glint rests in his smile as he approaches the trunk. Then comes the first blow. The sharp crack of metal against wood rings through the forest, followed by another, and another. With each strike, the tree shudders beneath me. Splinters scatter. The branches tremble. I cling desperately to the trunk, feeling the very thing that shelters me being torn away. I know it will not hold. There is another tree nearby, its branches stretching toward mine, close enough that I might reach them if I am quick. I steady myself, fighting the tremor in my limbs, and leap. For one glorious instant, I believe I have made it. My fingers catch the neighboring branch, the rough bark pressing into my palms. I tighten my grip, trying desperately to pull myself forward. Then my hands slip. The branch vanishes above me, and the world tilts violently out of place. I fall, reaching for anything that might break my descent, but there is nothing. The ground rushes toward me. My head strikes the earth with a sickening jolt. For a moment, I cannot remember where I am. I lie motionless, dazed, staring at the darkness above me. Then the memory returns all at once: the house, the man, the axe. I scramble upright and scream, pouring every ounce of terror into the night, desperate for someone to hear me. “Hush, your brother is still sleeping.” My mother’s voice. I feel a hand gently take mine. “It was just a dream, that’s all,” she whispers. I look around, bewildered. The woods are gone. The man is gone. There is no axe, no splintering tree, no terrible fall. Only the familiar darkness of my bedroom and my mother’s reassuring presence beside me. Slowly, the truth settles over me. I am safe. The tension drains from my body, leaving me trembling in its wake. I collapse into her arms, burying my face against her as the tears finally come. She holds me close, her hand resting gently against mine, and for the first time that night, I no longer feel the need to run. I let myself cry until the fear begins to loosen its grip, until the darkness becomes ordinary again, and sleep arrives to claim me once more…

You use me
to weave these riddles,
then lose me
when the page turns,
a young heart yearns,
and withers anew each time it burns.

You bruise me
with truths left unspoken,
confuse me
with promises fraying,
still, I remain,
content despite the pain.

You soothe me
with words that feign healing,
then elude me
when I begin believing,
leaving me grieving,
with a truth beyond conceiving.

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Then, one day, it shatters. A careless word sends it crashing to the floor.

You gather every piece, fit them together carefully, pressing every edge back into place. Bloody fingers smudging the shards you try to mend.

From far away, it looks almost whole. But when you gaze through it, the light catches differently.

There are places that blur. Places you can no longer see through.

And no matter how long you try to forget, you’ll always remember where it broke

I have stayed up late just to hear someone speak,
to learn all the things they would never repeat.
We’d talk about nothing till morning arrived,
And somehow, I left all my worries behind.

I remember the comfort of having them near,
a presence so kind it could quiet my fears.
No grand declaration, no promise to keep,
just knowing they stayed when I fell in too deep.

I have given affection and watched it return,
felt warmth from the people for whom I would yearn.
I have known what it means to be wanted and seen,
to feel like somebody could love what I mean.

I have had people ask me if something was wrong,
and stay when I couldn’t find words to respond.
I’ve been reminded that someone was there,
and felt, for a moment, that life could be fair.

I have laughed until tears found their way in my eyes,
shared secrets while gazing far up to the skies.
I’ve made memories out of the simplest of things,
and felt how much happiness closeness can bring.

I have loved people in ways I can’t fully explain,
in moments of laughter, in silence, in pain.
And for a little while, I believed love could be
the place where a person could finally be free.

And perhaps that is why it hurt how it did,
because they knew the parts of me that I’d hid.
I had given them trust I thought they would keep,
and watched them turn something so tender to grief

I had trusted their hands with the things I concealed,
the places I hurt, the wounds I had healed.
I learned that affection can come with a price,
that compassion sometimes disguises a knife.

I thought being known meant that I would be safe,
that love was a shelter from all I had faced.
But some people learn where your weakness resides,
and begin to reveal all the places you hide.

They knew what I feared, and they knew what I’d lost,
they knew what I valued, and still knew the cost.
I opened the door and surrendered the key,
and slowly they learned how to use it on me.

I remember believing that love meant a place
where nothing was hidden and nothing two-faced.
Where trust could be given without keeping score,
and being vulnerable gave reason to adore.

But slowly the warmth became something I feared,
the closer they came, the less safe it appeared.
I started to question the kindness I knew,
and wonder what hid beneath empathy too.

Now closeness feels fragile, like glass in my hand,
I hold it too tightly, the cracks a dark strand.
I want to be near them, I want them to stay,
but something inside me keeps pulling away.

I have learned how to smile when I want to retreat,
how to make an excuse when affection feels sweet.
I have learned how to run before someone can leave,
how to act like I never had something to grieve.

And still, there are nights when I wish I could call,
when the distance I’ve built doesn’t feel safe at all.
I miss being certain that someone was there,
before I learned closeness could turn to despair.

Perhaps that is what they left me with most:
not hatred, but distance, and fear of being close.
They didn’t just leave me with memories to keep,
they changed how I love, and for whom I would weep.

I give people comfort I secretly need,
I tell them they’re worthy while hiding my grief.
I tell them that needing somebody is fine,
then struggle to follow the advice that is mine.

Look at me, offering words I once prayed
someone would offer me when I was afraid.
I know how to hold someone else’s despair,
but still cannot grasp how to let someone care.

So when someone loves me, I ask myself, why?
I search for the moment they’ll leave or deny.
I find every reason to keep them apart,
then wonder why distance still tears at my heart.

I have loved many people and they’ve loved me too,
yet some of that love was completely untrue.
But some of it wasn’t, and that’s what remains,
the beautiful parts tangled thickly with pain.

So I will keep wanting what I cannot receive,
keep holding my breath when I know I will leave.
I will push them away when I need them the most,
then lie awake missing the words of their ghost.

I still dream of a love I could finally trust,
but dreams have a habit of turning to dust.
So I keep something hidden beneath what I show,
a part of myself they will never quite know.

Perhaps I am only the sum of my scars,
of hands that once held me and left me in parts.
Perhaps every person I let through the door
will become one more reason to close it once more.

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Better as in more:

More intelligent.
More beautiful.
More productive.
More accomplished.
More desirable.
More certain.

as if a person were a draft
that never should have been published.

So we learned to edit ourselves,
becoming fluent in the language of correction.
An endless cycle of revision:

Cut this.
Hide that.
Speak differently.
Stand differently.
Want less.
Want more.
Smile when necessary.

Every achievement
becoming a measure
of what we had yet to accomplish.

The A became
why not an A+?
The compliment became
something to maintain.

The accomplishment became
the minimum
for whatever came next.

Even happiness
became another thing
to be good at.

We were told to love ourselves,
then handed a thousand reasons
to become someone else.
Look at them.

Their grades.
Their bodies.
Their friendships.
Their relationships.
Their houses.
Their vacations.

Their perfectly imperfect lives
captured in photographs
from the perfect angle.

And we compare
our unfinished lives
to their edited ones.

Then wonder
why ours look so ugly…

So we performed.

Confidence—
when we were uncertain.

Indifference—
when we cared too much.

Happiness—
when we were depressed.

Success—
when we were failing.

We became whatever
the room seemed to require.

And perhaps the most aberrant part
is that nobody had to tell us to lie.

We simply learned
what was acceptable
and began removing
everything that wasn’t.

Eventually,
we could no longer tell
whether we were becoming
better people,
Or just better performers.

Still perfection kept moving,
always one step ahead.

There was always
another version of ourselves
waiting somewhere in the distance.

thinner,
smarter,
richer,
calmer,
more accomplished,
more worthy.

We kept walking toward them,
Calling out to them,
but they never turned around.

Perhaps that is the nature of perfection,

it does not have to reject you.

It only has to convince you
that you are almost enough.

Almost.

Almost.

Almost.

Until an entire life
can disappear
between one improvement
and the next.

Maybe we were never meant
to become perfect.

Maybe we were meant
to become people.

Messy.
Contradictory.
unfinished.

People who sometimes fail
without becoming failures.

People who sometimes disappoint
without becoming disappointing.

People who can exist
without constantly auditioning
for the right to exist.

What if the person
we keep trying to become,
is only the person we invented
because we were never taught
how to accept
the one who was already here?

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It is important to note that there is a distinction between revealing different parts of ourselves and constructing ourselves according to others’ opinions or pressure. A person may initially suppress an insecurity because they are afraid of judgment, or exaggerate a quality because they want to appear more interesting. However, over time these small changes can accumulate. The person is no longer simply choosing what to reveal, they are maintaining an identity. Eventually, the relationship may depend upon the continued existence of that identity.

This creates a strange paradox. Our desire to be loved can encourage people to become a person unrecognizable to themselves. We often imagine authenticity as the foundation of intimacy. If someone truly knows us and still chooses to stay, then their affection feels meaningful. Yet the desire for acceptance can make genuine self-revelation appear risky. It is much safer to present the version of ourselves we believe will be accepted than to risk showing the parts that might not be.

The most difficult part to accept, is that the other person is doing the same thing.

This is why the performance is so complicated. It rarely includes conscious deception intended to mislead the other. Instead, both people may be subconsciously adjusting themselves simultaneously. One person presents the qualities they believe the other will appreciate. The other responds to those qualities and modifies themselves in return. What emerges is an endless cycle of self-modification, in which two people continually reshape themselves in response to increasingly constructed versions of one another.

Maybe this is why some relationships can feel strangely lonely despite being intimate. Physical closeness does not guarantee psychological closeness. They may be loved, but only through a version of themselves that has been edited for acceptance. The tragedy is that the other person may be doing exactly the same thing. Two people can therefore become extraordinarily familiar with each other’s performances while remaining uncertain about what exists beneath them.

Perhaps the uncomfortable truth is that relationships require a degree of performance. No person behaves exactly the same way with a parent, a teacher, a childhood friend, a stranger, or someone they love. Human identity is partly relational, different people bring different versions of us into existence. Someone who is quiet around classmates may become animated around family. Someone who appears confident to those around may only reveal their vulnerabilities to one particular person. If every variation in behavior were considered inauthentic, then authenticity would become nearly impossible. To adapt to another person is not necessarily to lie to them. Sometimes it is evidence that their presence genuinely matters.

In conclusion, we engage different versions of ourselves around different people, and those versions are not necessarily lies. But when the desire to be loved overpowers the desire to be known, adaptation can quietly become performance, and performance can become identity. Perhaps the most intimate relationship may not be the one in which two people perfectly reveal themselves to one another. It may be the one in which they no longer feel that they have to perform in order to remain.

Do you remember the person you were before you understood what the world expected of you?

There is a strange cruelty in growing up: the very experiences meant to prepare us for life can slowly transform the person we were before we understood what life demanded of us. Childhood does not disappear all at once, but erodes through years of expectations, disappointments, and change. When I reflect on my past experiences at school, I find that they have shaped me into the person I am today. For better or worse, school has changed me in many ways. It has taught me to work with others, adapt to situations, and become more independent as I have grown older. Alternatively, school has influenced me in less positive ways. From a young age, students are placed in an environment with set expectations on our behavior, our values, even the way we think. Schools may encourage individuality, but I have found that there is often an unspoken pressure guiding us into a tightly knit web of acquiescence, unable to resist the intellectual homogenization we have been so indoctrinated to accept. Additionally, the constant pressure to perform, succeed, and meet expectations takes a harsh mental toll on far too many students. To be taught a skill or art, to learn to read, and to be exposed to a culture’s history was once considered a privilege. Yet our system has stripped education of the desire it once held. Applying pressures, standards, inevitable failures, and anxiety to a once-bright, optimistic child. Causing the gradual dissolution of curiosity and enjoyment that should accompany learning, and replacing them with stress and the fear of falling behind. When I was younger, I cherished the opportunity to go to preschool and kindergarten. A simple outlet for creativity and happiness, these experiences pushed me towards new interests, activities, and knowledge. As my life moved on, I realized these times were gradually slipping away. School no longer held appeal. The drag of monotonous instruction fostered intellectual stagnation. My twin older brothers fought back and forth; my older sister withdrew into her studies; my younger siblings suddenly seemed childish; and I found that my parents, just like everybody else, were not perfect. I found myself feeling alienated in a world never more connected.

As middle school approached, I began to realize that everyone seemingly had a place, a group, and an identity already waiting for them. Destined from birth to assume their role in society. I watched friendships form and fracture, personalities change, and people gradually mold themselves to the expectations predetermined for them. Yet I alone seemed incapable of truly molding myself to the obligations I had never chosen. I could act normal, fill my role, and be the perfect child, yet inside, I could never convince myself that this was my place, that I was meant to be this person. Fifth grade was the breaking point. COVID-19 struck, forcing the world into isolation and abruptly severing the rhythms delineating a normal childhood. School, already a fading, artificial source of inspiration, became little more than a screen, a schedule, and an endless succession of assignments. Replacing wonder with sterile windows and a gray computer screen. Gradually, the intrigue that had once defined learning was suffocated within a haze. Days blurred together, separated only by the dull progression of assignments, meals, and sleep. The isolation that had initially seemed temporary became an inescapable reality, and the world that had once seemed so expansive began to feel increasingly enclosed. I became withdrawn, apathetic, and increasingly detached from the things that had once given me purpose. My interests, once seemingly limitless in their expanse of imagination and boundless possibilities, slowly began to narrow. Their allure eclipsed by a pervasive emptiness so contrary to the optimism I once carried that I now struggled to recognize the person I once was. The years that followed were marked by a losing battle against depression, addiction, and an increasing sense of dissociation from the world around me. I have my parents to thank for helping pull me back into the world, refusing to let me remain within the isolation I had constructed around myself. Now entering 8^th grade, I threw myself into my schoolwork, swimming competitions, and soccer team, reminiscent of my life before. However, the more I pushed myself, the more I realized that I could never truly reconstitute my former self. I could return to the activities I once cherished, but I could not recover the feelings that had accompanied them; I could participate, yet the emotions that once came so naturally felt hollow and vacant.

Entering high school did little to alleviate this estrangement. Instead, I found myself entering an environment increasingly governed by expectations, competition, and pressure to succeed. The years ahead seemed less like an opportunity to discover myself, and more like a responsibility to construct a version of myself that could endure what life demanded. I soon realized that again, people had changed. Some became bitter, others consumed by the burden of work. Friendships thought to be forever now crumbled beneath the weight of time. Yet this time, the changes ran deeper. Now the world was real. Now the world was dangerous. Now the world was cruel and unforgiving. Alongside the dying friendships, friends themselves now died. Alongside the sickness within the system, peers themselves became afflicted. I lost friends to drugs, to suicide, to fear and anger. To cancer, to heartbreak, and to loneliness. Each loss stripped away another layer of the veneer surrounding me, exposing the nightmare I had lived in middle school not as some isolated aberration, but as a reflection of how the world truly worked. And so, as I begin this next chapter of my life, I find myself carrying both the person I was and the person I have become. I cannot return to the unburdened curiosity of my childhood, nor can I pretend that the experiences that changed me never happened. What I can do is learn from them, share these experiences, and continue to grow beyond the shadows they cast. For the greater the shadow, the brighter the light that rises beyond it. I cannot change what has happened, or reconstruct the person I once was, but I can choose what those experiences become. If nothing else, I hope to carry them forward not as burdens, but as reminders. To remain curious, to question what I am told, and to resist becoming another indistinguishable product of the system we live in.

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And if death is the inevitable conclusion to every life, is death not, in some terrible sense, our savior? The hand that eventually pulls us from the machine of misery?

Or is that merely another illusion?

Perhaps we are all puppets, suspended by invisible strings we cannot see, mistaking the movement of the strings for freedom. We are born without choosing to be. Given desires we never asked for. Thrown into a world whose rules were written before we could understand them and then condemned to spend our brief existence searching for a purpose that may never have existed.

We call suffering a lesson. We call survival strength. We call love meaning.

But what if these are only names we give to the things that keep the puppet dancing?

And when the strings finally fall slack, is that death? or are we then, and only then finally freed?

Perhaps the cruelest possibility is not that death saves us from suffering.

Perhaps it is that we spend our entire lives believing we are moving toward something, only to discover that there was never a destination at all.