Why is it that, at my core, I seem to be the most anxious, the most heartbroken soldier, the saddest version of myself?

I marvel at the many faces I wear, how I change and flow. Yet, why does the most accomplished, the most creative me, flourish only when I am heartbroken? Perhaps it's when I lose hope in people, and realize, again and again, that in the end, it's just me. Perhaps it's a reminder, sometimes gentle, sometimes like a slap to the face, waking my forgetful mind: you and only you can save your life, your soul, your being.

Did I forget to say how much I run in this life, and yet it never seems to be enough? It's just not enough, and the problems are never-ending.

This is the story of a 22-year-old girl who places herself in the middle of a rainy forest, hoping to see rays of sunlight one day. In her story, she was never enough for herself, never satisfied or at ease with what she had or who she was, because she lived in a house on the ocean. An unstable house in a vast, scary ocean, hoping one day to see an island on the horizon. An island to settle on, to lay down, to rest. To lie on the sand and, while listening to the waves, like a soldier dead on the battlefield, with a smile, she would say: I made it. I made it. I MADE IT.