There’s been something following me since I was two years old. Not a memory. Not a thought. Just this low, persistent hum under the surface – like something wants to be remembered, but can’t find the words.
I’ve always felt like I was meant for something. A calling. A purpose. I just never knew what the hell it was.
But here’s the thing: the ache never left. It just got sharper. Quieter. Meaner. And somewhere along the line, I started wondering…
What if I was placed here to witness humanity’s collapse?
Not to fix it. Not to warn anyone. Not to be a martyr. Just to watch. To feel. To remember.
Maybe I’ve lived a thousand times. Maybe I’ve worn flesh over and over again – not as punishment, but because some unseen force said, “Here, wear this skin. Go suffer for a while.”
And if that’s the case, what a cruel joke it is. To live as a mortal being – feeling this deep yearning to be understood, to be seen, to feel like I belong somewhere – and still have no goddamn clue where “home” actually is.
Everyone talks about loneliness like it’s just needing company. That’s not it. It’s deeper. Primal. It’s like something ancient is screaming through me with no mouth to scream from.
I don’t want validation. I want resonance. I want someone to look at me and just know.
And I’ve asked myself: what if this aching isn’t even human? What if it’s my real self – whatever that is – trying to express something through this clunky, fragile human body that can’t possibly contain it?
Maybe peace isn’t something I lack. Maybe it’s just something this form can’t feel.
Still, I stay.
Even after watching this world drown sincerity in sarcasm. Even after watching beauty get reduced to a marketing scheme. Even after screaming into the sky and getting nothing back but silence.
I stay.
I remember one night when I was 22. I looked up at the sky through a break in the clouds and saw five faint streaks side by side – like contrails, but far higher, too perfect. They didn’t move. They just were. With stars shimmering quietly behind them, I stood there in silence. Something in me cracked. I whispered, “It’s not my time to go home yet. Yet, you’re all leaving me behind.” A few quiet tears slipped from my eyes and fell onto my shoes. I asked the sky, “When will I also go home? When will I see home again?”
That moment never left me.
Maybe that’s the job. Maybe that’s what I’m here for. To remember what others forget. To feel what others refuse to. To hurt for something I can’t even name.
And if any of this leaves a mark – if these words become something someone else stumbles on when they’re at their lowest – I hope they understand this:
You’re not just lost. You’re remembering something. You’re not weak for aching. You’re old. You’re tired. And maybe that pain you carry is proof that you came from something greater.
And one day… maybe we’ll go back.
But until then, I’ll be here. Not pretending to be okay. Not pretending to be whole. Just writing. Breathing. Waiting. And listening to the silence between the stars.
