I move through life hour by hour, carrying a weight of unresolved guilt, grief, anger, and a loneliness that never truly leaves. Inside me, there is a constant conflict; thoughts that do not settle or reconcile, but collide and fracture, as if my own mind were at war with itself.

My sadness has learned restraint. It no longer interrupts. It allows me to answer questions, to fulfill my responsibilities, even to laugh at the appropriate moments. To anyone watching, I appear composed, functional—convincing, even. But it is only waiting.

Night arrives, and with it, everything returns.

It sits beside me like an old companion, patient and familiar, resuming a conversation I wish had been forgotten. We revisit the same terrain: old mistakes, missed chances, the people I could not hold onto, the versions of myself I quietly mourn. There is no resolution in these conversations, only repetition.

By morning, it disappears without acknowledgment, leaving me to move through another day as though none of it happened. As though I am not carrying it all with me.

And so life continues hour by hour, day after day, night after night.

The quiet war within me.
The sadness that waits its turn.
The performance that keeps me moving.
The grief that never quite looses its grip.
The guilt that does not fade.

And the loneliness: constant, patient, unbearable.
Days pass one after another, indistinguishable, each arriving without reason and leaving without meaning. There is nothing left that calls me forward, nothing that makes waking feel necessary.