Sometimes it is too much for the heart to feel and the mind to carry, every thought that runs through the mind keeps me awake and it feels like the nights keep getting old but the thoughts remain young.
And when you sit by the window alone and look outside, the world is moving fast but the sadness paused for a while, it's so noisy outside that instead you choose to look at the sky and suddenly there is a silence as if someone heard the noise in your mind.
And in that silence, the truth I've been avoiding crawls back to me. It sits quietly on my chest, heavy enough to notice, light enough to ignore—if I really wanted to. But I don't. Not tonight. Tonight, I let the questions I've buried rise to the surface.
Why does everything feel like it's slipping away?
Why do I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something I can't name?
I don't know if I'm brave or foolish, but I push myself off the window ledge of my thoughts and let my legs carry me toward the unknown. Something has to change.
Even if I have no idea what the next step looks like.
I take a breath, the kind that fills your lungs but still feels incomplete, and I move—one slow, uncertain step at a time. The room is dim, the night is quiet, yet everything inside me feels loud. Maybe change doesn't arrive with answers. Maybe it arrives with a single moment where you finally choose to move, even when the ground beneath you feels unsteady.
And as I stand there, caught between who I've been and who I might become, a thought hits me with unexpected force:
How do you know when you're ready to leave behind the version of yourself that's been hurting you the most?