It's been a while. I didn't die yet. Haha. Sometimes I genuinely wonder how I'm still alive, how I managed to make it this far, and how the world continues moving as if nothing ever happened. Days pass, people come and go, conversations happen, and everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing with their lives. Meanwhile, I'm just here, existing, observing, questioning everything, and trying to understand things that perhaps were never meant to be understood.
One thing I've come to realise is that humans are not worthy of what they have. And when I say humans, I don't exclude myself. I'm probably one of the people I'm talking about. We receive things without understanding their value. We have people who care about us, opportunities we never appreciate, moments we never recognise, and lives that someone somewhere would desperately wish to have. Yet we complain, destroy, misunderstand, and constantly search for something more.
I understand this, perhaps more than I should. But understanding something doesn't necessarily mean knowing how to live with it.
People are strange. Not in the ordinary sense, but in the way they think, speak, react, and perceive the world. Everyone seems to have a different language hidden beneath the words they use. Sometimes I listen to people talking, and I wonder how their minds work. How do they form opinions so confidently? How do they laugh about certain things? How do they find meaning in conversations that feel completely meaningless to me? How can two people experience the same moment and walk away with entirely different interpretations of it?
I've started noticing things I never used to notice. The smallest changes in someone's tone, the expressions they make, the things they avoid saying, and the differences between what people show and what they might actually feel. Perhaps I'm overthinking. Perhaps I'm simply observing too much. Or perhaps I've become so disconnected from everything that watching people has become easier than participating in life myself.
I don't know.
I didn't die from schizophrenia, or whatever darkness I thought might eventually consume me. I continued living. But sometimes surviving something doesn't mean you've found a reason to live. Sometimes you simply wake up the next morning, and the same questions are waiting for you.
Who am I?
What am I doing?
Where am I going?
And most importantly, why does everything feel like something I'm supposed to do rather than something I actually want?
I genuinely believe I'm nothing. Not because I think I'm incapable of achieving something, but because I cannot seem to identify anything within myself that belongs exclusively to me. I don't have a dream that makes my heart race. I don't have a destination I'm desperately trying to reach. I don't have some extraordinary ambition that keeps me awake at night.
I have no goal.
At least, no goal that feels like it's mine.
If someone asked me what I wanted from life, my answer would probably be money. A lot of it. Not because I dream about expensive cars, luxurious houses, expensive watches, or the admiration of strangers. I want money because I want my parents to live comfortably. I want them to experience a life where they don't have to calculate every expense, where they don't have to sacrifice their happiness because something costs too much, and where they can finally enjoy the things they once postponed for the sake of their family.
I want to give them everything I possibly can.
And somehow, that has become the only thing I consistently understand about myself.
Almost every decision I make revolves around money. Every opportunity becomes a calculation. Every new idea becomes another possible source of income. Every skill I consider learning is connected to what it might earn. Even when I imagine my future, I rarely imagine myself being happy. I imagine my parents being comfortable.
It's strange, isn't it?
I spend so much time thinking about building a better life, yet I rarely stop to consider what a better life would actually look like for me.
I don't know what I enjoy anymore, or perhaps I never gave myself enough time to discover it. Everything has become an investment, a possibility, a strategy, or a means to an end. Even my ambitions feel borrowed from responsibilities I have created inside my own head.
I want to become successful, but I don't know what success would mean if nobody needed anything from me.
I want to become wealthy, but I don't know what I would do with all that wealth if I couldn't recognise the person who earned it.
I want to make my parents proud, but sometimes I wonder whether I've forgotten that I'm also supposed to have a life of my own.
And that's probably the strangest part.
I don't necessarily hate my life. I don't even know whether I understand it enough to hate it. I simply feel like I'm living a story whose main character was never properly introduced to me.
Everyone expects something from life. Some want love, some want recognition, some want power, some want freedom, and some simply want to be understood. I watch them chase those things, and I wonder whether there's something fundamentally different about the way I experience existence.
Maybe there isn't.
Maybe I'm just another human being trying to make sense of a world that doesn't provide explanations.
I sometimes think about how much of our lives is spent becoming someone other people can appreciate. We study, work, earn, compete, sacrifice, and repeat the process until one day we look back and realise that most of our decisions were made for reasons we never questioned.
And I don't want to wake up one day with money in my account and absolutely no memory of what it felt like to be young.
I don't want my entire existence to become a transaction between my sacrifices and someone else's happiness.
Yet I keep moving in that direction.
Perhaps because I don't know another way.
I wish I could say that everything will eventually make sense. That one morning I'll wake up with a purpose, discover something I love, and finally understand why I spent so much time feeling disconnected from everything around me.
But I can't promise that.
For now, I'm just someone trying to understand people, understand himself, and understand why being alive can sometimes feel like watching a movie without knowing the plot.
I don't know where this story is heading.
I don't know whether I'll become the person I imagined, whether I'll ever discover something worth pursuing beyond money, or whether I'll ever learn to make decisions that are simply for myself.
But perhaps there's something I've overlooked.
Maybe I don't have to become extraordinary to deserve an ordinary life.
Maybe I don't have to earn my existence through achievements, money, sacrifices, or the happiness of other people.
Maybe, somewhere between becoming successful for my parents and trying to understand everyone else, I deserve to discover myself too.
And perhaps that's a chapter I haven't written yet.
Not because I know how it ends.
But because, despite everything, the story isn't finished.