371. Life is like a horizon that I can’t reach somehow. No matter how much I walk, it always stays at the same distance.
Maybe the truth is that the horizon doesn’t exist; it’s just an illusion, an illusion.
But even this illusion feels like a wound inside me.
I want, but I don’t know what I want.
I miss, but I don’t know what I miss.
I’m alive, but I don’t know why I live.

The days pass like shadows lined up one after another.
I wake up in the morning, go to the office, sit at my desk, deal with papers.
But all of this feels like someone else’s life.
I am just a spectator — the audience of my own life.
I walk among people, but I don’t belong to them.
Their laughter, their talking, their fuss… it’s all happening in a world outside of me.

Sometimes, for a moment, I think everything might make sense.
A leaf shaking on the branch of a tree, the laughter of a child running on the street, that strange blue of the evening sky…
But these moments disappear like the awakening from a dream.

Only that familiar emptiness remains, that familiar restlessness.
I write, because writing is the only way to fill that void.
But even the words I write seem to betray me.
They don’t exactly carry my meaning.
Maybe I don’t have anything to say.
Maybe I just write because silence is heavier.
Words are my only friends; but even they, somehow, are not entirely mine.
09.10.25