Yes, I write again. Just because i can’t scream anymore. Not Cowardly. There’s something coiled in the folds of my tired breath. Something Constantly aching. Something that aches to name the nameless. But it always fails. It’s hard to live in the pause between the thoughts, where things aren’t quite dead and not fully alive. I think I have been living in the parenthesis of existence. Like living permanently into an airplane, you are always in the between, never there or here.

Life is my luminous trap. This net made of invisible thread taunt and shimmer things I have never asked for: birth, time, the unstoppable passage of moments. I didn’t choose this. I was thrown into this like someone tossed into water before knowing how to swim. And now I tread. Tread. Tread. Tread.

I wanted to believe that there was a meaning. I hunted it like an animal, sniffing traces of it in music, movies, art, in the absurd curve of a cat’s spine as it stretches in the sun, in the tremble of a leaf before falling down. Sometimes I think I almost touched it. But it resolved under my fingers like smoke.

What do I hold on to? The fact that I am still breathing? But again, what even breathing feels like betrayal?

And yet.

I notice the light on the wall changing color, the hush of the air before the rain and the mellifluous petrichor afterwards. The way I suddenly feel that I AM being without need to explain it.

Most days I don’t feel like continuing. Not from courage, not from hope, not from obligation. I continue because something trembles deep inside. Some pulse that resists extinction. A fragile, flickering yes whispered inside the no.

Clarice wrote because she didn’t understand herself. I don’t understand myself too, and the reasons that brought me here. But perhaps, PERHAPS, this not understanding is the reason.