emptiness

I feel empty. A hollow echo reverberates inside me, like a room where the walls keep stretching, but nothing ever fills the space. Loss, sadness, despair—they all pass through me, but they don’t stay long enough to mean anything. I’m not happy, but I don’t feel like I deserve to be sad either. What do I have to be sad about? I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, people to turn to if things get tough. Everything is fine. But I feel so bad.

It’s all ending, isn’t it? Slowly, bit by bit, through my choices. Little by little, I’m unraveling. I don’t think it would change if I went back to the past. Or at least, I don’t think so. I don’t have regrets—not big enough to care about, anyway. Everything that’s happened to me, every choice I’ve made, has shaped who I am. If I changed any of it, I’d be someone completely different. And I wouldn’t want that.

I think I write to understand myself. These words were in my head, and only by writing them down do I actually think about them with intention. I try not to overthink, but here I am, untangling the mess inside me.

I don’t know what’s next. Maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe the problem is that I’m looking for a problem where there isn’t one. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m just human.

But the emptiness doesn’t care about maybes. It just sits there, heavy and quiet, waiting for me to figure out how to fill it. Or maybe it’s waiting for me to realize that some voids aren’t meant to be filled—they’re just meant to be carried.

And so, I carry it.