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The first day of October, and somehow, I find myself in a place I never thought I would have to return to. The cold voice in my mind keeps asking, “Why am I still here? Why do I keep trying so hard when I am already so tired?” Some days, giving up can sound deceptively simple. No more fighting through another painful day. No more waking up and having to convince yourself to keep going. No more asking yourself how much longer you can carry what you have been carrying. And still, I am here. Still trying. I wish I could say I always know why. I don’t. Sometimes, I keep going because there are still things I love. People I love. Small pieces of life that I am not ready to leave behind. Sometimes, I keep going simply because I have made it this far, and some part of me still believes there must be something waiting for me on the other side of this. Maybe that is what trying really is. Not knowing how everything will turn out, but refusing to let one difficult chapter decide the ending for you. So I will try again tomorrow. And then, if I have to, the day after that. M. | 1st October 2026

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“Hey, can I get back to you later? I’m in the middle of trying to keep myself together.” Often, you wish you could say that to people. Tell them the truth, so they might understand what it is like sometimes inside your head. And yet, some days, your mind opens the door to its own ghosts, and suddenly there is no room left inside you for anything else, no explanation you could offer. So you retreat, slowly disappearing from the world, finding your way back to the familiar darkness that was once your hiding place. You thought you had left it behind, believing you had finally found your way out. Only to find yourself standing at its door, once more. And you think to yourself, “One of these days, the ghosts will get tired too.” M. | September 2026

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“And you do not need my forgiveness, nor I yours; it is all the same whether you forgive or not, all the rest of my life you will remain like a wound in my soul, and I in yours - and that is proper” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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“I can't think of anything to write about, I'm just walking around here between the lines, under the light of your eyes, in the breadth of your mouth as in a beautiful happy day, which remains beautiful and happy, even when the head is sick and tired.” ~Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

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I didn't notice September leaving until there was so little of it left. Maybe that is how time works when you are simply trying to make it through the days. You wake up, you do what needs to be done, you carry whatever is still waiting for you, and somewhere between one day and the next, an entire month has passed. There are things in me that may never completely disappear. The sadness. The anxiety. The old fears that still know exactly where to find me. Perhaps I will carry some of them for the rest of my life. And I know there will still be days when I fall apart. Days when my mind becomes too loud, when I am tired of carrying myself, when getting through the day feels like an accomplishment no one else will ever know about. I will keep going, even on the days when living feels less like certainty and more like an act of faith. Maybe strength was never about becoming someone who could not be broken. Maybe it was learning that brokenness does not get to decide what happens next. September is leaving now. I don't have some beautiful ending for it. I don't think I need one. It was a month. I lived through it. Some days I was brave. Some days I was barely holding myself together. Most days, I was somewhere in between. But I kept going. M. | September 2026

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“How can you be happy in this world? You have a hole in your heart. You have a gateway inside you to lands beyond the world you know. They will call you, as you grow. There can never be a time when you forget them, when you are not, in your heart, questing after something you cannot have, something you cannot even properly imagine, the lack of which will spoil your sleep and your day and your life, until you close your eyes for the final time” ~Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

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Over time, I realised that I have not recovered from many things. There were times, even when I was still bleeding profusely, I just shook myself up and moved on with my life. It’s not that I did not allow myself to truly feel and deal with the pain, it’s just that I was too used to being strong that I was afraid I would lose the only protective mechanism that I have. I am a soul full of grief, anger, and longing. I am a keeper of everything broken in my life and of those shattered pieces left by all the people who had been in some chapters of my book. Their memories are forever etched inside my heart, laughing, screaming, crying, sometimes calling my name and jarring me awake from my deep slumber. At times, they were too heavy, too scattered for me to hold and keep up with. I am probably the strongest girl you would ever meet, for no one knows how well I hide my weaknesses and wounds; no one would ever guess how damaged I actually was inside. Maybe that’s why the universe gave me endless papers and quills so I could give all the pain somewhere to run, somewhere to exist outside of me, so I can calmly breathe, even if just for a little while. M.

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