How do you tell someone that you feel like you're constantly disappearing, even while you're sitting right in front of them? It's not depression exactly - though maybe it is. It's more like... imagine you're writing your name in water. You can see the letters forming for a split second, and then they're gone. That's how my existence feels most days. I try to explain this to my friends and partner sometimes, but the words never come out right. I was here, and then I wasn't. I am here, but not really. And tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe that's why I've never been able to fully commit to anything - relationships, career decisions, even the city I live in. Everything feels temporary, like I'm always preparing to fade away.

I’ve tried to force myself into permanence, to carve out something solid — a job that makes sense on paper, friendships that should feel grounding, plans that are supposed to mean something. But nothing ever sticks. And yet, somehow, I keep going —drifting from one moment to the next, never fully anchored but never completely letting go either. Maybe that’s why I crave certain things — music that drowns me, words that put shape to the formless, anything that makes me feel like I exist, even for just a moment.