Maybe it's the summer that's approaching. With all of its glory and warmth that seeps into every corner of the darkness. Or the winter that embraces the warmth in my body now. I was never good with goodbyes or changes. I wished that things would forever stay the same, because in familiarity is where I thrived. Familiarity with what I know, what I can control and what to expect. 

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But life doesn't offer me that solace. The universe keeps shifting and encounters the unknown with stability so unknown to me. Maybe it's not the solace I am looking for that needs me and for things to stay the same but rather, to accept the changes yet find stability within the chaos I am intertwined with. 

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Some days, my dreams slip through my fingers, I slip through my fingers like sand on the beach. Not knowing what to live for, not knowing what it means to be alive. Not knowing the oceans touch. 

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Yet I keep going, I keep pushing through not knowing if I am gonna make it. But just how much more can I keep going if it means to live this way? Grief comes knocking on my door frequently, just asking for an embrace. Yet its embrace is like thorns on a rose, slowly killing me with each stab. Will it get better? I know better than to answer that question. Maybe it's not about that, maybe it's not about anything. 

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How can I live when I crumble to the very world outside, when every fibre in my being is tired? How can I even begin to hope when it's crushed without being born? 

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But, just maybe; my hope is like a parasite killing me yet keeping me alive. Maybe the universe is telling me not to focus on the outside but on the inside. Maybe I am the parasite that's killing myself. Does that offer me any consolation? Absolutely not. 

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Why is pain so hard to acknowledge? We feel it like the sharp winter breeze, yet it's burning hot. Why is it easier to run away, or ignore it or shove it in bottle? Why is it that I buried my pain in a box 10 feet underground and ran away from it — yet it haunts me? I became a prisoner long before I knew it. I kept shutting the box, burying it deeper, shutting it, shutting it, running away from it for years. Not knowing that I carry it with me like I breathe the very oxygen that keeps me alive. 

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So, after years of running away, I am tired and exhausted, and now all I can do is sit with it. Sit in the uncomfortable silence that threatens warmth. When the very truth, the very essence of a being is ignored, one cannot question its creation. 

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One last thing: it gets better. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, maybe not in a few months, but it does. Every day, you'll feel a bit better. You should believe it when a hypocrite like me is saying it.