Growing up, the one thing I always heard was that you have to study hard to achieve something in life. And I listened. I did exactly that. I put in the days and the sleepless nights, carried by unimaginable patience and countless silent prayers. I dedicated myself completely to the journey. I don’t regret it at all, because I know I did it for my own good and my own future, not for anyone else.
But lately, looking at where I am, something inside me still feels so incomplete. It is a strange, quiet feeling—like something vital has been torn apart from me, and I’m only just noticing the wound. I am bout to win the race, but I lost myself along the way.
When I look at my schedule now, I realize I’ve just become a machine. I am constantly working, constantly moving, but I am not doing a single thing that actually gives me happiness. My calendar is full, but my chest feels completely empty. The things that used to bring me pure joy are the very things I barely engage in anymore.
I love to draw. I live to write. Colours used to give me hope when things were dark, and a pen always gave me a sense of direction when I felt lost. I used to create worlds, now I am just stuck between assignment & notes.
Looking at my life as a whole right now, I can’t even find a single hour to just sit down, be still, and create, that's what kinda making me feel pathetic. I don't have time to just be me. It feels like in the process of building a life and working so hard, I’ve somehow lost my own identity. I lost my art, and I just want it back.
But lately, looking at where I am, something inside me still feels so incomplete. It is a strange, quiet feeling—like something vital has been torn apart from me, and I’m only just noticing the wound. I am bout to win the race, but I lost myself along the way.
When I look at my schedule now, I realize I’ve just become a machine. I am constantly working, constantly moving, but I am not doing a single thing that actually gives me happiness. My calendar is full, but my chest feels completely empty. The things that used to bring me pure joy are the very things I barely engage in anymore.
I love to draw. I live to write. Colours used to give me hope when things were dark, and a pen always gave me a sense of direction when I felt lost. I used to create worlds, now I am just stuck between assignment & notes.
Looking at my life as a whole right now, I can’t even find a single hour to just sit down, be still, and create, that's what kinda making me feel pathetic. I don't have time to just be me. It feels like in the process of building a life and working so hard, I’ve somehow lost my own identity. I lost my art, and I just want it back.
Mr