Through the Fog

Blog

  • The Dying Day

    The day doesn’t end all at once.

    It weakens.

    Light thinning at the edges,

    hours learning how to let go.

    I watch it die quietly—

    no drama,

    no final words—

    just shadows stretching

    like they’re tired too.

    The dying day carries

    everything I didn’t finish:

    conversations I rehearsed,

    apologies I swallowed,

    hope I meant to believe in

    a little harder.

    Night arrives

    like an understanding,

    not cruel,

    just honest about what remains.

    I sit with the dark

    and take inventory—

    what hurt,

    what survived,

    what I’ll try again tomorrow

    if morning is kind.

    The dying day doesn’t judge me.

    It just leaves.

    And somehow,

    that feels like permission

    to rest

    without explaining myself.

  • Why Is It So Easy to Fuck Up?

    Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try, I keep finding new ways to mess things up.

    Not on purpose. I don’t wake up thinking, let’s ruin something today.

    It just happens.

    A word lands wrong.

    A feeling shows up before I can stop it.

    A moment where pain speaks faster than logic ever could.

    Why is it so easy to fuck up

    and so hard to forgive yourself?

    Maybe it’s because deep down, I expect perfection — from me, from everyone.

    Like if I get it right this time, I’ll finally be enough.

    But life doesn’t work like that.

    Healing doesn’t either.

    It’s two steps forward, three back,

    and a quiet voice in between saying, try again tomorrow.

    The truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can with what we know.

    Sometimes trauma speaks louder than intention.

    Sometimes old versions of us resurface when we’re tired and scared

    and just trying to make it through the day.

    But fucking up doesn’t mean we’re broken beyond repair.

    It means we’re human —

    still learning,

    still fumbling,

    still reaching for something better.

    So yeah, it’s easy to fuck up.

    But it’s also easy — if you let it be —

    to start over.

  • Running in Place

    I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,

    like one wrong move will collapse

    every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.

    So I lock myself inside my head—

    bolt the doors,

    pace the floors,

    run in place until my lungs burn

    and call it preparation.

    I don’t freeze because I don’t care.

    I freeze because I care too much.

    Because every decision feels loaded,

    every choice feels permanent,

    every step forward feels like a gamble

    I can’t afford to lose.

    My mind turns into a track meet—

    thoughts sprinting,

    worst-case scenarios stretching,

    my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic

    while my life stays exactly where it is.

    I analyze.

    I overthink.

    I tear every option apart

    until nothing feels safe enough to touch.

    I tell myself I’m being careful,

    that caution is wisdom,

    that staying still is strategy.

    But really—

    I’m terrified.

    Terrified of messing it up.

    Terrified of proving every fear right.

    Terrified that trying and failing

    will hurt worse than never trying at all.

    So I run in place.

    Sweat, strain, panic—

    no distance covered.

    Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,

    momentum without movement,

    noise without progress.

    I scream inside my head

    while the world keeps going,

    unaware that I’m fighting a war

    no one can see

    and losing ground by standing still.

    I’m angry at the pressure.

    Angry at myself.

    Angry that wanting something badly

    can paralyze you just as easily

    as not wanting anything at all.

    And maybe the cruelest part

    is knowing this isn’t living—

    it’s containment.

    It’s fear disguised as discipline.

    It’s survival mode

    with nowhere to go.

    I don’t need another plan.

    I don’t need another rehearsal.

    I need the courage to stop running in place

    and accept that movement—

    real movement—

    will always feel dangerous

    to someone who’s been hurt before.

    But I’m so damn tired

    of sprinting nowhere,

    of locking myself away

    from the very life

    I’m trying so hard

    not to lose. 

  • Rock Bottom

    I hate rock bottom,

    but I’m good at digging holes—

    hands blistered from familiar work,

    knowing exactly where the ground gives way.

    I tell myself I’m searching for answers,

    for something buried worth finding,

    but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,

    proving I still know how to disappear.

    Rock bottom scares me

    because it asks me to stop digging,

    to stand still with the damage,

    to look at what’s left

    instead of what I can destroy next.

    Digging feels like control.

    Like movement.

    Like I’m doing something

    instead of admitting I’m tired.

    But every hole looks the same

    after a while—

    dark, quiet, convincing.

    I don’t fall because I don’t know better.

    I fall because climbing feels

    like hope,

    and hope feels dangerous

    when you’ve been let down before.

    Still—

    even with dirt under my nails,

    even with gravity winning again—

    some part of me keeps looking up,

    measuring the distance,

    wondering what it would take

    to stop digging

    and start building

    instead.

  • Autopilot

    Photo Credit: Olesya Yemets

    My days keep blurring together,

    nothing is happening,

    but everything is happening.

    I wake up, I move, I breathe—

    do what I’m supposed to do.

    Smile when it’s expected.

    Hold it together long enough

    to get through the day.

    Time feels soft now,

    like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

    Mornings turn into evenings

    before I notice I was even here.

    I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

    Carrying things I don’t know

    how to set down yet.

    Waiting for something to make sense,

    or maybe just waiting

    to feel like me again.

    So the days blur.

    They pass quietly,

    hand in hand,

    like they’re trying to be gentle

    with what I’m surviving.

  • The Only Bad You’d Ever Done

    The only bad you’d ever done

    was see the good in me—

    a version of myself

    I didn’t believe in,

    a softness I’d buried,

    a light I swore

    I didn’t deserve.

    You looked at me

    like I was something worth keeping,

    even when I was all sharp edges

    and quiet storms,

    even when I pushed you away

    just to see if you’d stay.

    You loved the parts of me

    I learned to hide,

    held the pieces

    I was ashamed to touch,

    saw something whole

    in someone who felt

    always broken.

    Maybe that was the problem—

    you saw the best in me

    when I was drowning

    in the worst of myself.

    Maybe the only bad thing

    you ever did

    was believe

    I was better

    than I knew how to be.

  • Cigarette Burns Slow

    Photo Credit-Bogdan Cotos

    Cigarette burns slow—

    like regrets that don’t scream,

    just smolder in the quiet

    until you notice the damage.

    They don’t rush.

    They take their time

    etching memory into skin,

    into hours you thought would pass

    cleanly.

    Smoke curls like excuses,

    soft, convincing, temporary—

    but the mark stays.

    Always does.

    Some pain doesn’t explode.

    It waits.

    And by the time you feel it,

    it’s already part of you.

  • I Called, But There Was No Answer

    I called, but there was no answer—

    just the hollow ring

    of my own hope bouncing back at me.

    The line stayed open,

    silent as an empty room

    where your name still hangs in the air.

    I rehearsed what I would’ve said,

    every apology, every truth,

    but silence swallowed them whole.

    Maybe you were busy living,

    or maybe you were learning

    how to forget the sound of my voice.

    I let the phone fall to my side,

    realizing some distances

    aren’t measured in miles—

    they’re measured in unanswered calls.

  • Living in Agony

    I am living in my agony,

    not visiting it,

    not passing through on the way to something better—

    I’ve unpacked here.

    Learned the hours.

    Memorized the sound of my own breathing

    when the night stretches too wide.

    Pain isn’t dramatic anymore.

    It doesn’t shout.

    It hums.

    Low and constant,

    like a refrigerator in the dark—

    easy to ignore until the power goes out

    and you realize how loud it always was.

    I wake up already tired,

    already negotiating with myself

    about how much truth I can afford today.

    Some days I give nothing.

    Some days I bleed quietly into routine

    and call it productivity.

    I carry my agony politely.

    I hold doors.

    I smile.

    I ask other people how they’re doing

    and mean it—

    because focusing on their lives

    keeps me from inventorying my own wreckage.

    But it’s there.

    In the pauses.

    In the way I flinch at kindness

    like it might ask something of me later.

    In how I brace myself

    even when nothing is coming.

    Living in my agony means

    learning the weight of unshed tears,

    how they press behind the eyes,

    how they settle in the chest

    like a language I never learned to speak aloud.

    It means knowing that healing isn’t linear—

    it’s circular.

    You come back to the same wounds

    wearing different names,

    hoping this time they recognize you

    as someone who survived.

    I don’t romanticize this.

    There is nothing beautiful about endurance

    when it costs you pieces you can’t replace.

    There is nothing noble

    about being strong so long

    you forget what rest feels like.

    And still—

    I keep going.

    Not because I’m brave.

    Not because I believe everything will work out.

    But because something stubborn in me

    refuses to let the pain have the last word.

    Living in my agony

    doesn’t mean I’ve given up.

    It means I’m honest about where I am.

    It means I’m still here,

    even when here hurts,

    even when the only victory

    is making it to the end of the day

    without disappearing.

    This is not a cry for saving.

    It’s a statement of fact.

    A line drawn in the dirt

    that says:

    this is where I stand,

    this is what I carry,

    and despite it all—

    I am still breathing.

  • What Have I Become

    What have I become, my sweetest friend,

    when even your silence sounds like judgment?

    When you look at me

    like I’m something you remember

    but don’t recognize anymore.

    I’m made of aftermath now

    of things that didn’t kill me

    but stayed anyway.

    I learned how to survive by shrinking,

    by numbing the sharp edges

    until nothing cut

    and nothing healed.

    I speak in half-truths.

    I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.

    I carry my worst thoughts

    like contraband

    hidden, heavy, always with me.

    I wasn’t born this hollow.

    I was worn down.

    Sandpapered by time,

    by love that took more than it gave,

    by nights that taught me

    how easy it is to disappear

    without going anywhere.

    If you’re still calling me friend,

    don’t ask me to be better.

    Don’t ask me to go back.

    That person didn’t survive this.

    This is what’s left

    quieter, darker,

    harder to love,

    still breathing

    like that’s supposed to mean something.