I just wanted to remind myself—perhaps—that I'm still here. I still exist, despite everything. There's life even when everything inside us screams otherwise, still resists. Maybe resisting, these days, is just keeping breathing. There's something despite the pain: not exactly relief, but proof that it doesn't swallow everything, despite. Sometimes, existing is just that—moving on. The mind lies, confuses, repeats that it won't work. But there's a small, almost forgotten part that still whispers: keep going. Existence is fragile, yes—but strangely stubborn. Life never stops weighing, but it also never stops changing. The good moments pass. The bad ones too. A silent dance between the abyss and the light. Impermanent. Life goes on, always goes on. The breath of being. I write to endure. And between the inner chaos and the silence no one sees, I keep going. Still here. Still being.