I write, and write, and write. Life is this wild, continuous story that just keeps going. And I'm always amazed at how I manage it every time, every day, every glance. I'm amazed at my own perseverance amid everything. It's like losing sense, going slightly mad. I'm desperately searching for meaning, for purpose in the smallest of moments, in each new story, each new emotion. I'm looking for something to make these seemingly meaningless events feel meaningful.

Will something come out of this, or will I emerge changed? Lost in amazement, perhaps feeling a bit euphoric, I keep getting jolted by the small parts of this larger whole. I have to wake myself up, look further, see things differently. I'm trying to grasp the bigger picture.

Then, I feel overwhelmed. I wake up again, shake off the confusion, and keep going, fueled by uncertainty and a kind of dusty curiosity. There are no answers. And maybe that's what keeps me moving forward.

Everything seems a vast gray, but sometimes it's a palette of the most intense colors that my eyes can't quite understand. So they start to see what they want, maybe not entirely true, but it's something. It's mentally, even physically draining. But every day, I get up, grab my coffee, look at the latest New Yorker, and pretend it's all fine, calm, a version of normal. I tell myself maybe everyone feels this way, and that thought is even sadder. A world full of sad, confused people.