Five months have passed.
Five months of acid rain on my face, of sharp words, of silences louder than noise. One hundred and twenty-sixth of my life. Not much, numerically— but enough to erase the past, mortgage the future, and devastate the present. Five months worth a whole life. And they’ve left me, as the only inheritance, a moment of clarity.
I’ve learned that no one comes to save you. That justice doesn’t seek truth— it seeks order. That suffering doesn’t elevate you: it carves. And if it doesn’t find you dead, it finds you different. Stripped down, but clear-eyed.
I’ve learned to choose. To do it without fear, without needing approval. To choose like breathing: to stay alive. And at the same time, to keep all options on the table. Not out of power-lust, but for the love of true freedom.
I’ve recognized my enemies. They don’t wear armor. They wear ties, smiles, good manners. They spoke to me calmly, but under every phrase was the same message: “You are the problem. Accept it.” I didn’t. I tested them. I tried them like metals. Many failed the test. And to each, I spoke the truth. Unfiltered.
You don’t go back from there. Disappointment turned into anger. Anger into contempt. And contempt doesn’t want revenge. It wants distance. A sacred space to protect what’s left of me.
I’ve cried. Enough to fill a liter of salted water. A liter of real, tangible tears.
No metaphor. An invisible river poured into silence. And still, I walk.
Writing has become resistance. The word, both a blade and a caress. And my children, my only center. Even when they’re not near. Even when they seem to forget me.
Finally, I understood: our primary instinct is not survival. It is immortality. The kind we seek through our children. In them, we leave the hope not to vanish completely. And when they’re taken from us, it’s not the heart that breaks: it’s eternity that is cut short.
So be it. I face this new month without hope, but with an unshakable certainty: I am fighting on the right side of history.
I don’t know if there will be an end. I don’t know if I’ll find justice, if someone will one day ask for my forgiveness, if my children will understand what was done to their father.
But I know this: I did not betray myself. And every word I wrote, every action I took, was also for them.
So that one day, maybe far away, they can look back and know: their father didn’t give up.