I want to rest, but I’m fighting to stay awake.
I hear the voice of freedom beckoning me.
It whispers, “One more line. One more idea.”
And I can’t pretend to turn my back on it again.
I’m Awake When The World is Asleep
I often stare at the walls of my apartment; my light clock shines dimly on my face in the darkness. When it’s a tough night, I’ll struggle to sleep, then I look at the time and sigh heavily.
It’s almost midnight. Again.
I have to wake up at 2 a.m. if I want to find parking at the warehouse. That gives me maybe… an hour and a half of sleep if I try right now.
But I won’t.
Because something in me needs to write before the noise eats me alive.
I know it’s reckless. I know its not sustainable, I’m tired — not in a poetic way, but in the real, physical, almost-broken way that makes your bones feel heavy and your thoughts turn against you. But if I don’t get these words out of my head, I’ll drown in them.
Writing to Outrun the Thoughts
The thoughts always come when I’m still and in motion, in the silence and in the noise.
They tell me I’m a nobody.
That I should be grateful to have any job — even one that eats my time and grinds down my health, mind, and soul.
Because I don’t have a degree, or an impressive resume, or experience, or friends in high places who could help me out, I’m not valuable or worth anything enough to anyone else, and I don’t have a business either.
That without this job, everything I’ve built would collapse under its own weight — rent, bills, debt, fear.
But I keep writing. Because it’s the only thing I have that feels like mine.
The Promise I Chased
When I started this blog, I believed — truly believed — that I could turn my words into something sustainable. Not viral. Not a brand. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to build an escape hatch in case I got let go.
Because that’s always possible, isn’t it?
One shift cut. One bad quarter. One policy change. One injury or accident. One manager who decides I’m expendable.
I thought maybe — just maybe — if I wrote enough, showed up enough, shared enough, someone would see me. Maybe I could earn a few dollars. Maybe people would support my work.
And now, nearly 60 posts in, I find myself wondering:
Was I wrong to believe in that idea?
Was hope just a softer kind of trap?
Questioning the Value of My Voice
Who would pay to read this?
What value have I created for anyone but myself?
Those questions haunt me more than failure does. Because failure would at least mean I tried something big. But this? This feels like being stuck in-between — too tired to dream, too stubborn to quit.
I work two jobs.
My second one — a part-time gig at a rage room — helps me scrape by, but it could never support me if I lost my full-time warehouse job. That one is the anchor — and I’m terrified of what happens if it slips.
Why I Moved Out (Even When I Couldn’t Afford To)
I moved out not because I had to, but because I needed to.
I didn’t want to keep leaning on my family. I wanted to learn how to stand on my own, to feel what it’s like to be fully responsible for myself. But no one tells you how hard independence really is when you have no safety net and no time.
Even now, I don’t want to be a burden — not to them, not to anyone.
But I feel like I’m at the mercy of everything outside me: schedules, bills, landlords, loud neighbors, shifts, exhaustion, bad sleep.
Some days, I’m just surviving.
Some days, not even that.
My family supported my decision and claim I’ve grown since I moved out. Though, I wonder if they only see what they want to because, I don’t verbally share much of what’s going on with them, they tell me to appreciate what I have too. Even if it sucks, even if I hate it, it supports me, right?
The Far-Off Promise
And yet… there’s a whisper I keep chasing.
It speaks to me in the quiet moments, when the city sleeps and my heart still believes in something more. It’s the promise of freedom. Of having time. Of waking up when my body’s ready, not when a schedule demands it. Of creating because I want to — not because I’m scrambling for escape.
It’s the whisper of choice.
Of rest.
Of building a life instead of barely surviving one not meant for me.
Somewhere, deep down, I still believe I might reach it. Even if it’s far off. Even if no one’s handed me a map.
No One Is Coming to Save Me — But I’m Still Here
No degree. No connections. No fancy job titles.
But I’m still writing.
Still working.
Still showing up to my own life with a pen in my hand and a fire in my chest.
Because if no one is coming to save me, then maybe I’ll save myself — word by word, post by post.
This blog isn’t a business plan. Not anymore.
It’s a record. A living document that says:
I was here. I felt all of this. I wanted more. And I didn’t go quietly.
To Anyone Else Still Dreaming
If you’re stuck, tired, or holding onto your dream by a thread — I see you.
If you’re working two jobs and still not making it,
if you stay up late to feel human again,
if you’re doing your best not to be a burden,
if you’re chasing something no one else sees —
you’re not alone.
You’re not broken for wanting more.
You’re not selfish for needing rest.
You’re not lazy, or ungrateful, or too much.
You’re just human. And the world isn’t set up for people like us.
But we’re still here.
Still writing.
Still alive.
That means something.
If This Resonated…
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Now, that everything’s been said and done, I’ll see you all later in the archives.
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