I don’t know if I will ever manage to make peace with myself, but if that ever happens, it will be only thanks to writing. No outside help, no medication, no consolation—just writing. Writing as an act of resistance, like digging a tunnel with bare hands through the rock of pain. A slow, exhausting, silent gallery, but a necessary one.
Writing has become my shield against falling into madness. When everything seems to collapse, when my mood is shattered by a meaningless gesture, a sound, any small detail that awakens the abyss, it’s writing that holds me, that anchors me.
I’ve convinced myself that to get through this crisis, I need to make a great effort of selfishness. But maybe it’s not really selfishness: maybe it’s love for what remains of me. Because it’s precisely love that keeps us tied to pain. Not being able to love makes us suffer. And anger—the kind that returns—perhaps serves to protect what is still alive in us: our ability to love, including ourselves.
Walking in this state is like practicing tightrope walking. You mustn’t ask where you're going. You just have to keep walking on the taut rope, without looking back, without asking the kind of questions that make you waver. A single thought, a glance downward, and you risk falling.
My steps are not steady. Too much at the mercy of events, too many variables out of my control. Even when I feel a bit more sure-footed, the risk of falling is always there, ready to reappear. A single gust of wind is enough, and all the effort seems in vain.
Tonight, the thoughts flow non-stop. My brain is faster than my fingers, which can’t keep up. No logical chain can contain them: they move freely, following secret connections, hidden folds of consciousness. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe this, too, is part of the journey.
Writing keeps me balanced. It doesn’t seek answers, but it prevents madness from taking over. And as long as I can write, I know I’m not lost.
That’s why I don’t sleep. Because night is the time when the tightrope walker stops pretending to be stable and allows himself the luxury of feeling everything. In the dark, every step echoes louder. Every thought demands to be heard. And I can’t turn away.
Writing is not a support group. It is a healing ritual. Writing to give the enemy a shape. Writing to force it out of me. Only then does the enemy become vulnerable.
I glimpse a faint light through the window: a new day is making its way.
And we greet it by proving that we’ve taken one more tiny step toward salvation.