The number 444 has started appearing frequently to me. I was never one to really believe in these things, but given the circumstances, maybe it's real... maybe it could be a sign from him to me.

Memories fill our soul and feed our nostalgia. Like a shadow that will follow us until the end of our existence, all those moments that once felt endless are now buried in our minds as if they had been just a dream, so distant from reality now… I look back. At my old home, people, and places that are no longer part of who I am. They belonged to the person I used to be, the one from the past. Every now and then, I dream about my old room. I wish I could find an answer to these dreams, but I simply can't. Guesses are all I have. Maybe it’s nostalgia for the girl who once lived inside me? For the innocence and purity? For those moments when I was truly happy? So many memories were left behind in that house where I lived since I was a child. Today it belongs to another family, building new stories, while mine have faded there. I feel waves of melancholy when I think about it. All the colors that once existed in my life have turned into thick fog around me. There are no more sunny days, the remnants of genuine happiness are minimal and always fleeting… I’ve become so used to my new self that I only get glimpses of those old moments now. If it weren’t for my journals, I wouldn’t remember half of what has happened. I miss a time I will never live again.

Lately, I feel an inexplicable emptiness inside me, a kind of anguish that feels like thorny branches wrapped around my heart.

If I had to define my life in one word, it would be: monotonous. There is a profound emotional exhaustion when I wake up and realize that my day will hold nothing new. Today, I decided to sleep until three in the afternoon, thinking: why wake up if I’m not going to do anything? so I returned to sleep. I dreamt of some people from my past whom I would rather not remember. I love sleeping, as it is a refuge from all this chaos, but sometimes even dreams do not grant me peace. Every day is the same. I never imagined that growing up would be my worst nightmare. I longed for it when I was younger, if only she knew... My mind feels numb. There are days when I feel inspired to be much more productive, and then I go days doing almost nothing. Time passes, and I remain stagnant in the same place, taking small steps, like the story of the hare and the tortoise, but unlike the tortoise, I will never reach anywhere. I feel nothing, I think of nothing. My mind is like a blank sheet of paper now, even the smallest effort is enough for exhaustion to set in. The more I sleep, the more tired I feel. Well, the only thing that has cheered me slightly this month is halloween, my favorite time of year. I don’t know what else to write. I just wanted to update this page. I’m far too lethargic to write more beautifully, so... that will be all for today.

Existence is strange. We're born without awareness of where we are, without knowing where we came from before opening our eyes for the first time. We depend on others to eat, drink, go to the bathroom, change clothes, go places. They teach us morality, right and wrong, impose their beliefs, their values, their truths. We follow what they do, because our minds are shaped by the vision of others. We're born condemned to be influenced, to fear the unknown, to dread sin. Society's shaped by minds that came before us, and all we do is follow, repeat, and believe without questioning. Some manage to escape this bubble and shape their own values, their own beliefs, yet even then they're still influenced by other minds. No one is immune. We go to school to learn subject after subject we’ll rarely use later, yet we need that piece of paper, the symbol of a useless approval. School, parents, and society tell us we need a degree, a job, a successful career, a family. Amid so many obligations, there’s only a trace left of what makes us feel alive: the pleasures, the passions, the small escapes that remind us we’re still living. A pause within this finite existence. We struggle and struggle, work and work, all in pursuit of a meaningless goal, the search for the meaning of life. In the end, death’s the only certainty. Why do we exist? Everything we strive for’s futile. Material things remain, while we depart. In the future, no one’ll remember us, because those who once knew us’ll be gone too. Few, among billions who’ve ever lived, will be remembered for generations. And one day we’ll evaporate into time, until not even the echo of our name lingers in anyone’s mind.

This week I’ve been struggling with insomnia again. It’s always like this, and I’ve grown used to it. Some weeks my sleep is perfect, and then it falls apart once more. I really need to ask my psychiatrist for something to help me sleep. During these sleepless nights, my mind becomes a whirlwind of thoughts, and I find myself inspired to write long passages. Pouring all these words onto paper brings a sense of relief to my soul, especially since I never show them to anyone. Lately, I’ve been truly eager to read more about Sylvia Plath, her deeply human writing inspires and motivates me to keep improving my own. It feels liberating to express emotions, feelings, and reveries. Sometimes, that’s all I need to keep my anguish and despair from consuming me.

Time is passing too fast, but now I’m losing the fear of what the future holds for me. Slowly, I’m losing the fear of death.

I used to love the end of the year, in some ways, I still do. But everything feels different now, and I believe this may be the most disheartening one I have ever experienced. The magic has faded, and my family is no longer what it once was. Its brightness and color have disappeared, along with the gifts and the anxious anticipation of finding them beneath the Christmas tree. I look at photographs from this time of year when I was younger and see how genuinely happy I was. There are so many good memories, and although I have grown, I still long to feel that sense of wonder again, even if only once more. Yet no matter what I do to recover that feeling of nostalgia, it will never return as it truly was, the real thing.

Darkness brings my soul to the surface and changes the way I see the world around me. I love staying awake late at night just to observe the stars and the moon. The silence that accompanies it fascinates me. When the city falls asleep, I feel as though I am the only one inhabiting this place. No irritating noises, no voices everywhere, no sound of vehicles passing by. For a few hours, it becomes a kind of paradise on Earth. Far from the daily chaos, animals seem to finally have their moments of freedom. This is the ideal time to read, to write, and to dive deep into the mind, connecting with my inner self. Memories surface, moments both good and bad. I slow down, but sometimes certain thoughts become disturbing. When that happens, I distract myself with other things, because what truly matters to me is the gift called silence, something only the night can offer. I lean against the windowsill with an empty mind. I love it when the moon rests directly in my field of vision, and sometimes when clouds pass beneath it. My favorite moment. I identify deeply with this phrase. I cannot tolerate the sun. Night is where I feel truly free. I love everything that is dark, cold, cloudy, and rainy. Most of my texts are born after midnight. Many people will never understand the feeling of nightfall. They love the day, the sun, the warmth, and use the night only for sleep. But for a melancholic, thoughtful soul, the night means everything. I wish more people appreciated silence. I imagine what the world would be like if it were filled with melancholy and deep thoughts. What I see most are superficial people, incapable of sustaining a more serious conversation. I, personally, dislike jokes and shallow playfulness. It would be liberating to share my deeper side without being seen as boring or overly serious. Hell is defined by the day. Heaven, by the night.