My glass of water sits just out of reach, mocking me from the table. And yet, I can’t bring myself to move toward it. I’d rather sit here, parched, than muster the energy to give my body the care it needs. It’s not just laziness—it’s something deeper, something darker. A grotesque apathy, a loathing that runs so deep it’s easier to let myself wither than to do the smallest thing to preserve myself.

This year, I will stand as I am—

unmasked, unwavering, wholly true.

Each step rooted in purpose,

each word a mirror of my heart.

Blurred Days

The clock blinks,

but I can’t read its face—

hours melt into wrapping paper scraps

and half-finished conversations.

Bare

I stand without cover,

no shine, no mask.

Just skin,

lined and soft,

telling stories I didn’t ask to write.

To take the raw sinew of art, therapy, and healing and weave them into something whole, something alive. To create and to heal, to let both acts intertwine like roots growing through the cracks of broken stone. One step at a time.

They bend over backward for everyone else, twisting themselves into knots just to fit into what others expect. They feel the tension, the exhaustion of constantly trying to please everyone, and yet, they don’t know how to stop. There’s a deep fear there, too, a quiet terror of what might happen if they finally stand their ground. Maybe it’s a fear of being rejected or upsetting someone, or maybe they’ve experienced that kind of rejection before, and it haunts them.

I’m realizing now that the story I’ve been aching to tell all these years isn’t just mine. It’s the stories of all the people I’ve met, their lives entwined with mine, their histories bleeding into the fabric of my own.

But once you start running, you learn that stopping is the real fear. Stopping means facing the wreckage, looking in the mirror and seeing the ruins of what you once were. I knew—God, I knew—that if I slowed down, I’d hate what I saw.