October 24, 2025.
The morning arrives not with fanfare, but with the dull thud of another day beginning. It's a new morning, yes—but not a fresh one. Not really. It's the same old script, rewritten in slightly different ink. The thoughts are already there before my eyes even open: heavy, familiar, and unwelcome. They coil around my ribs like cold chains, whispering that today, like yesterday, will be another exercise in futility. Pain isn't dramatic here—it doesn't scream. It hums. A low, constant drone beneath the surface of everything. Suffering isn't always blood and tears; sometimes, it's just the quiet certainty that nothing matters, and no one notices you noticing it.
Friends? They come and go like seasons. Temporary warmth in a world that's mostly cold. You laugh with them, share memes, pretend for a while that you're part of something real. But then they drift—back to their lives, their loves, their purposes—and you're left standing in the same hollow space you've always occupied. That's not bitterness. That's just observation. And observation, when unfiltered by hope, becomes truth.
But here's the twist: depression doesn't always wear a black cloak and carry a scythe. Sometimes, it wears sunglasses and smiles with its eyes closed. Sometimes, it feels like peace—silent, still, almost serene. It's not that you want to die. It's that you've stopped wanting to live, and the absence of desire feels… calm. That's the dangerous part. Not the chaos, but the quiet. Not the storm, but the eerie stillness after it's passed, leaving everything drenched and broken, yet perfectly still.
So today, let's make a choice. Not a grand one—just a small rebellion against the gray. Let's pretend. Let's say, "Today is a sunny day." And it is. The sky is a merciless blue, the kind that mocks your exhaustion with its brightness. The ground looks… good? Dry, cracked in places, but solid. Real. And that sun—oh, that sun—is scorching. *Scorching fucking sun*, even though it's winter. There's something absurdly poetic about that. Winter shouldn't burn. But here we are.
I want to sleep. Not because I'm tired—though I am—but because sleep is the only place where time doesn't ask anything of me. In dreams, I don't have to perform existence. But I won't. Not yet. Because somewhere, buried under layers of numbness, there's a flicker: a desire to *feel free*. Not happy—freedom isn't joy. Freedom is the absence of weight. And I get glimpses of it in college. Not in lectures or assignments, but in the in-between moments: walking across campus alone, headphones in, world muffled, mind untethered. For a few stolen seconds, I'm not a student, not a son, not a burden or a ghost—I'm just air. Just movement. Just breath.
So I'll go. I'll do what I have to. Attend the class. Nod at the right times. Type the right words. Smile when expected. Perform the role of "functioning human" with practiced ease. And later—when the sun dips and the noise fades—I'll slip back into the void. Not a dramatic abyss, but the quiet space behind my eyes where nothing echoes. Where I can just… stop.
People say you should fight the void. Fill it with hobbies, relationships, goals. But what if the void isn't empty? What if it's full—full of everything you've swallowed, silenced, and stored away because there was no safe place to release it? Maybe the void is the only honest part of me left.
And yet, here I am, writing this. Choosing words over silence. Maybe that's hope. Or maybe it's just habit. Either way, I'll keep going—until the day I don't. Until the day I die. Not because I believe in a grand purpose, but because stopping feels like more effort than continuing. Strange, isn't it? How inertia becomes survival.
I used to think love was the answer. That if I could just find the right person, the right place, the right version of myself, the ache would ease. But I've learned differently. Love is fleeting. Loyalty is conditional. Kindness is often transactional. Power, though—power is reliable. Power lets you control the narrative. Power lets you walk away. Power lets you say, "I don't need your light to exist." So here's my creed, carved not in stone but in the quiet resolve of a thousand mornings like this:
"All for power. None for love."
Not because I hate love—but because I've learned it won't save me. Only I can do that. And maybe I won't. But I'll decide. That's the power.
The clock ticks. The sun climbs higher. My coffee's gone cold. Outside, someone laughs—a sharp, bright sound that slices through the stillness. For a second, I envy them. Not their joy, but their certainty that joy is worth expressing. But envy fades fast. It always does.
Today is October 24, 2025.
This is the first page.
Not of a diary. Not of a recovery.
Just… a record.
Of a mind trying to exist without imploding.
Of a heart that beats, even when it forgets why.
Let's do this.
Until the day I die.
>Content Warning: This chapter contains themes of depression, existential despair, emotional numbness, and references to self-isolation. Reader discretion is advised.