This year for me isn't about "New Year's Resolutions." This year's about the art of aggressive focus.

It's the realization that if I can just tap into my flow state consistently for the next 12 months, there's a high possibility that I can achieve anything I've set my eyes on.

There is a distinct difference between "working hard" and being "locked in."
Working hard is tiring.

It feels like pushing a boulder up a hill. "Locking in," however, is different. It is a flow state.

It is a visceral shift from passive interest to active obsession. It is the moment the noise of the world fades into the background, and the only thing that remains is the objective in front of you.

We are a few weeks into the year. By now, the shiny veneer of "New Year, New Me" has started to crack for most people. The gyms are getting quieter. The journals are staying closed. The motivation is evaporating.

Good.

This is where the real work begins. This is where the tourists go home, and the operators start building.

Welcome to my monthly growth journal. This is where I track my process. The wins, the failures, and the raw data of trying to build something significant online.

The theme for January is simple: The Great Lock-in.

The Audit: Knowing The Baseline

You cannot improve what you do not measure. Before I talk about where I’m going, I need to be honest about where I am standing right now.
I spent a lot of last year planning.

I strategized, I researched, and I "prepared." But preparation can be a dangerous form of procrastination. You can feel productive without actually producing anything.

Here is my current baseline:

Current Focus:
I want to be the best at what I do. Being a B2B/Web3 writer.

Key Metric:
So far, I'm making little to nothing from the skill. I have no gigs currently. No revenue sources whatsoever. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Shi Shi I no get.

The Frustration:
I couldn't get a high paying writing gig last year. And my socials got very little to no growth (LinkedIn/X). I even had to delete an X profile of mine and built a new one.

Sure, there are other things I want to do.

(I want to trade cryptocurrencies. I still want to try degen trading despite being rekt by it. I want to try out YT automation and even Amazon publishing)

There are so many things I want to do. There are so many things I want to write about here but I can’t.

This is the core of it all though.

I didn’t want to put this off any longer and it’s really still just a mashed up piece of writing. I was supposed to include screenshots, images, and key materials as reference points for a final end of the year review but na… The other issues will be better, I promise. I just needed to start and get that momentum going.

I am putting this in writing because I want to look back at this in December and laugh at how small the numbers I’m looking at are. And trust me, I’m pretty much at rock bottom.

But as I said, there’s a lot of hope for the future. The next 12 months are going to be intense.

But more importantly, I’m sharing this because I want you to do the same.

Stop lying to yourself about your output. Look at the numbers. Are they moving? If not, then you need to lock tf in.

The Protocol: How to Actually "Lock In"

This is where my research comes in handy.

Most people think focus is about willpower. It’s not. Willpower is a battery, and it runs out by 2:00 PM.

True focus—the kind required for a "Great Lock-in"—is about Environment Design.

If you rely on willpower to stay off TikTok or Instagram, you will lose. You have to rig the game in your favor. For this month, my protocol is aggressive elimination.

You also have to make the consequences of not doing a task greater than doing it.

If you have trouble waking up early, set your phone at a distance from your bed. If you do not get up and turn it off, the constant ringing is going to drive you insane. Something like that. Getting up and turning off the alarm isn't your choice but it's the more convenient thing to do.

Here’s a more comprehensive video on that.

1. The "Monk Mode" Morning

My phone does not exist for the first two hours of the day. I won't scroll. I won't check stats or reply messages.

The morning is for output, not input. The moment you open social media, you are letting the world dictate your mood. Keep the morning for yourself.

2. The "One Thing" Rule

We love to make to-do lists with 15 items to feel busy. But usually, only one of those items actually moves the needle.

For January, I am asking myself every night: “What is the one thing I can do tomorrow that makes everything else easier or unnecessary?”
If I do that one thing, the day is a win. Everything else is just a bonus.

You know what? There’s this really helpful time management routine I found on YT.
Funny I found this when I did because it was also based on a book I read not too long before then.

3. Dopamine Detox

I am cutting out the cheap thrills. Less mindless scrolling, less junk content. The brain needs boredom to be creative.

If you drown your mind in cheap dopamine every time you have a spare second, you will have no energy left to create your own value. Trust me, I know.

The System: My January Roadmap

A goal without a system is just a wish. Here is the exact routine I am running to ensure I don't burn out, but also don't slack off.

The Daily Non-Negotiables:

Deep Work (4 Hours):
Cold Outreach to companies.

Physical Maintenance:
Lifting heavy/Running. Gotta do either of the two.
You cannot have a high-performing mind in a lethargic body.

Input:
Reading 10 pages of something educational. Might be a blog post. An article or just a video.

The "Kill List" (Things I am NOT doing):

• No multitasking (it kills IQ).
• No saying "yes" to events that don’t align with the goal.
• No consuming content before creating content.

The Philosophy: Motion vs. Action

James Clear talks about the difference between Motion and Action, and it has been stuck in my head all week.

Motion is planning, strategizing, and learning. It feels like progress, but it produces no result.

Action is the behavior that delivers an outcome.

Writing an outline for an article is Motion.
Publishing the article is Action.
Searching for a gym workout plan is Motion.
Doing the squat is Action.

For January, my philosophy is to minimize motion and maximize action. I don't need more information; I need more execution.

The "Lock-in" isn't about being the smartest person in the room; it's about being the most consistent.

The Invitation

This series is for me, but I want you to come along.

We are all looking at the same 12 months ahead of us. Time will pass regardless of what we do. The only variable is how much focus we apply to the hours we have.

I am betting everything on January to set the pace for the rest of the year.

My challenge to you: Pick one area of your life. Just one. Your health, your writing, your finances. Decide right now that for the next 30 days, you are going to treat it with obsession.

Well, that’s just about it.

Don’t just try. Lock in.
See you in February to review the wreckage and the wins.

I'm trying to fall asleep to "Purpose Is Glorious" by Natalie Holt. The first 2 mins do not really pique my interest. It's perfect but the last 1 min 8 seconds?

It's like a dream where I'm floating through space and drifting into nothingness. I'm lost and I'll never see my loved ones again. But it's comforting. It acknowledges how I feel at this point in my life.

“I am Loki, of Asgard, and I am burdened with glorious purpose.”

Burdened - Something is pulling at me and I can’t ignore it.

I LOVE Loki. And I see myself in him. I speak “for all of us” (if you don't get the reference, you'll get it later) when I say we do too. Yes. All of us.

Loki always felt like he was meant for something greater but he didn’t know what. But he wanted to be seen. To be acknowledged for the god he was.

The god of mischief. Odin’s son and Thor's equal. Poor Loki.

I get that.
I feel like there’s a throne somewhere out there with my name on it, but the path isn’t clear, and the uncertainty annoys the hell out of me.

Loki’s real turning point was understanding that his purpose wasn’t given, it was chosen. And while I'm glad he realized what needed to be done, I'm still not over the fact that he sacrificed too much in the process.

This is where I am standing right now. I've been waiting for someone to knight me, or “discover” me, or hand me a title. Now, I realize I'm going to have to build the damn thing myself.

It gets to a point where you just go "damn... I am really getting old now". What have I really done with my life so far?

22 years is quite serious for such a clueless soul and I have already started to mix up the dates.

Did I really clock 22 this year or 23? When did I turn 20 again?

In the grand scheme of things, yes, I’m still young but compared to other twenty-somethings in this day and age, I’m far behind. Little progress is still progress but no progress is no progress. C’mon.

Next year, I'll turn 23. Probably. And I'd blink to find myself at 30.

I'm burdened with glorious purpose. But I don't know what that is. But I want to find out. I want to be burdened to make a life out of myself. And I'm afraid I may not be able to pay the sacrifice. I may not be able to do what needs to be done.

The mere realization that life is about to get way more hectic than it is makes my guts tighten.

This is supposed to be the first of many diaries to come, yeah? So permit me to be as unfiltered as I can today.

Life has been a constant drift from one phase to the other. There's a point you realize you are NOT in control of anything. You don't got that shit on. And you're not HIM.

I have a lot of issues.

I'm occasionally broke.
I got bad habits. Lots of them.
I am not spiritually inclined or conscious.
I'm so emotionally detached from my family and people that it scares me.
I got bad grades.
And I can't work hard to save my life.
I can't do anything right.

That's a lot of Is. My life is a tangled plate of sour spaghetti with periods of sweetness in-between.

But every now and then, a glimmer of hope appears, promising that things might change someday.

There's always something or someone I have to be better for. I can't afford to be a loser. I must win.

But that'll only work if I put in conscious effort. Intentional effort. Which I will. And I will succeed.

“Because, I’m Collins and I’m burdened with glorious purpose.”

Hopefully, that involves me writing to you about what I'm up to more often than I normally would.

“Why are you even putting personal stuff like this on the internet?”

Well, like I always have. To connect with people who also feel lost. To be a reaching hand. To write the things that your heart cannot say and give voice to your silent thoughts.

I see you. Even when no-one else does. And I acknowledge your feelings and what you're going through.

And I know you're meant for something meaningful. You play an important role in this world. You might not know your purpose yet but life is a journey.

Everything Loki did led him to become the god of stories (from being the god of mischief). That wouldn't have happened if he accepted defeat.

Of course, it wasn't that straightforward. One could write a 5000-word essay on his character arc and would just be scratching the surface. Life is complicated. Marvel’s timeline, even more so.

So let's get to work.

I'm fighting for the life I want my future self to live. And the person he loves. And I am aware of the sacrifices involved. To them, I say:

Healing has been romanticized into something cinematic. Like a rising phoenix. Or a glow-up montage with Daniel Caesar playing in the background.

But healing is boring as hell. Man, it's painfully uneventful and disappointingly unsatisfying.

It’s not a moment. It’s a long, dry stretch of “meh.”

Nothingness.

It's waking up at 1 pm on your day off with the scorching afternoon sun piercing through your window and stabbing your face.

You take another two hours before you decide to get up. The thought of getting up and doing it all again is soul-crushing. You spend another two hours just existing. Another day to survive the hardship.

It’s waking up every day looking like you served as a rag doll in someone’s fantasy war while you slept.

It’s brushing your teeth. It’s taking walks with a tight chest. Deep sighs every five minutes because despair keeps whispering, “You’re barely loved and no one wants you.”

It's leaving the dishes unwashed because you live alone. What happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen. You're not hungry anyway.

Your place is messy. There’s the pile of clothes by the corner and you couldn’t give a fuck about the trash all over the place. You like it because there’s comfort in the mess. It’s like the room acknowledges the chaos in your head.

It’s breathing through your third breakdown of the week and still showing up at school like nothing happened.

Sure, you have your phone. You smile and you try to keep up with your reputation as the clown of the clique. But damn, once 2 am hits and you’re all alone again, you break down over something someone said a year ago while you listen to sad songs and doze off. It’s a cycle.

We talk about healing like it’s this checklist.

Go to the gym.

Glow up.

Make money.

oh please…

It’s not. It’s multifaceted. It's physical, emotional, spiritual.

It looks different for everyone, and even more frustratingly, it changes shape every time you think you’ve figured it out.

And let’s talk about closure. Everyone’s favorite healing buzzword. You want to believe that if you could just hear “I’m sorry,” or “It wasn’t your fault,” or "it’s not you, it’s me," or a decent explanation, the pain would just go away.

But most of the time? You don’t get closure. Not from people. Not from life. Not from anyone. You might think you need it. Hell, you think you'd die without getting closure. You want to lose your mind.

It’s like trying to remember a song you barely remember and you have a faint memory of its tune.

Your brain keeps trying to figure it out and your head starts to hurt. That’s what looking for closure feels like. You ask yourself questions. Lots of them.

Sometimes, the apology doesn’t come. The explanation never arrives. The person who broke you walks away and never looks back. And yet, somehow… you still have to find a way to heal.

You’re expected to move on from chapters with no final sentence. To accept that even without the full story, you deserve peace.

But no one talks about relapse. That random Tuesday where a scent, a song, or a stupid meme drags you back into memories you thought were dead and buried.

Suddenly, it’s five months ago again. The chest tightens. The heart gets heavy. The sadness doesn’t knock, it crashes. You're overcome with this overwhelming feeling; depression.

It’s not even the attachment anymore. It’s the feeling that stayed. The warmth in the memory. The nostalgia, which is the intoxicating drug that soothes while it stabs.

And in that moment, you’re no longer healing. You’re spiraling. “What if I tried harder?” “Was it my fault?” “What could’ve been if I was just… better?”

Healing is never linear.

Sometimes, you’ll go days feeling okay, laughing, eating, maybe even hopeful. Then, boom.

You're back at square one, arms wrapped around a pillow like it could hold everything that left.

But relapse doesn’t erase progress. You didn’t fail. You’re just human.

Healing is in the boring bits. In the silence. The journaling (that you skip half the time). In choosing to keep going. To still believe there’s something better ahead, even when you don’t feel it.

Because maybe healing isn’t about becoming someone stronger.

Maybe it’s about becoming someone gentler.

Someone who can sit with pain without letting it define them. Someone who knows peace isn’t always loud.

And maybe, just maybe... healing is learning to carry your sadness without letting it drown you. To let the nostalgia come and go. To let the questions remain unanswered.

To wake up one day and be okay.
To wake up one day and release it’s all gone. To wake up one day, be okay and do it again the next day.

If this piece made you pause, you can follow me here on Medium. I write when I have something to say. Usually about being human.

I'm clueless. What is this feeling? It's like this “heaviness” imposed on my weak heart.

Heaviness? More like a nerve-racking, heart-racing, head-spinning illness thing… (wait, what?)

How do I tell you that when you're out of my sight, I barely remember you exist?

But by chance, I catch a glimpse of you on a chilly Friday evening. You stare at me for two seconds, and suddenly, thinking of you got my heart racing the entire weekend. Or two weekends until I'm distracted by school — my relentless enemy— trying to take my life away.

Why do I keep saying hi and not asking for your name or why you look so beautiful?

I should. I could. But issues from my childhood would make me pass out the second I approach you any closer.

I'm definitely not in love. Falling in love is like finding an unexpected star in the night sky, one that lights up your world in ways you never knew possible.

Wait, I think she's that unexpected star. Or she might be when I do fall in love with her “unexpectedly”.

Wait, I'm rambling again. This is the second time I fail to make sense of anything.

You know what? I'm going to fist bump her next time. She seems nice. I'll even throw in a genuine compliment; “You look lovely today. To be honest, you look lovely every single day.”

I hope that starts a new chapter in my autobiography. And it's going to be called “Chapter 35: I'm crazy for you. Why the hell am I crazy for you?!”

If this piece made you pause, you can follow me here on Medium. I write when I have something to say. Usually about being human.

Everyone’s building.
Everyone’s shipping.
Everyone’s on a “journey.”

I’m on a journey too, every now and then. It’s usually when I’m sitting on the toilet, romanticizing about the hot wife and beautiful mansion I’ve built by the seaside.

Or when I’m cooking a pot of stew and rice for 4 hours, only to finish it all in 15 minutes. As far as journeys go, that’s about it.

Aside from that, I’m just… scrolling on your average day.

You see 19-year-olds with startups,
24-year-olds “retired young and rich,”
Someone from your high school on the news already, collecting awards like they’re the infinity stones.

Meanwhile, you’re struggling to reply to your 20+ WA messages out of anxiety.
Struggling to feel real. To feel… seen.

It’s not envy—it’s erosion.
Watching people win so loudly while you exist so quietly. Your existence feels like that of an NPC.

“Yeah, that guy's cool. I think he's working on something. Whatever it is. He's figuring life out. Kudos to him. What’s his name again? I keep forgetting.”

Your efforts feel like a joke.
Your dreams? Too small.
Your pace? Too slow.

Your will to succeed? Not enough to earn you a spot in the Green Lantern Corps.

The internet shrinks you. It makes you see this insignificant part of yourself that feels like it doesn’t make a difference. Not because you aren't trying your best, but because your best is seemingly just the starter phase for most.

Not because you’re not doing enough,
But because everyone else looks like they’re doing everything.
And all of it better than you.

“Yeah, you shouldn't believe everything you see on the internet.”

Yes, I know that. How could I forget?

The internet is a stage where everyone edits their script in real-time. We get to highlight the applause, delete the silence, and pretend the bloopers never happened.

Excuse me? Have you been on LinkedIn?! Frankly, I detest the platform for this reason. Everyone’s trying to feel significant with unnecessary progress reports. Unnecessary wins. But I guess a win is a win. No matter how small.

You got your driver’s license? Congrats. But did it really have to come with a lecture on growth and development in business terms?

You got engaged? Great, but please leave out the 5 SaaS lessons you learned from it.

It’s all noise. And yet, it somehow gets to me.

I’m not saying I don’t want to grow. I’m not saying I don’t have ambitions. But watching everyone’s “highlight reel” while I’m over here trying to write my next paragraph, hoping it doesn’t suck, makes you wonder: “Am I even doing enough?”

But here’s the thing. I’ve been misled by the internet’s highlight reel. Success isn’t always a sprint or a perfectly curated feed.

Sometimes, it’s the small, mundane victories—like showing up, staying in the race, and not giving up when the results are still below average.

I’m learning, slowly but surely, that success doesn’t have a deadline. And maybe my quiet existence, my “journey,” is just as valuable as the loud, edited stories that flood my feed.

If this piece made you pause, you can follow me here on Medium. I write when I have something to say. Usually about being human.

Straight A’s. Big dreams. Adults who said “You’ll do great things.”

So I believed them. I believed the lies.

“All I need to do is lock in.”

I thought greatness was inevitable. I thought I was the bee's knees. The next best thing since Agege Bread and Akara.

That the world would clear a path for me just because I had “potential.”

Now I’m in my 20s.

And potential feels like a debt I’ll never be able to repay.

Turns out, being average isn’t a punishment.
It’s just… reality.

I’m still young and I ‘shouldn’t’ feel this way.
But damn, no one prepares you for the grief that comes with letting go of who you thought you’d become (for example, realising you’ll never become a pro footballer is a canon event most males go through. “Who’s ‘Yamal’ anyway? If only I had that opportunity…”)

To me, being average is “twisted”.
Everyone is special in their tiny bubble—until they step out and meet people who are better, faster, smarter.

And just like that, whatever superpower you thought you had evaporates.

At the same time, I don't think my theory fully holds up because some people do shine everywhere they go.

But there are also people like me, who fail to excel. Who always comes second… or third. Fuck, that was my prime.

I was like 14-15 years then? And even then, I was in my twin sister’s shadow the entire time. I was not bothered at all. Life was good.

I'm in college now. I can't even confidently consider myself above average.

But please, note that this is just what I feel. I may be completely off and miss the point.

But I do know one thing. In this noisy, messed-up, fast-paced, success-obsessed, average-is-for-the-weak, shitty world I was born in, average is a synonym for failure.

It's a term for those who have chosen to forgo the chase for excellence and find comfort in the complacent, mediocre life.

What if I’m just lazy? I’m sure of that. But the underlying reason is not that I don’t want to put in the work. I’m dealing with trauma from past attempts.

We just brush off the disappointments with a “at least you tried your best” but trying your best is exhausting. It’s even more exhausting to try again when success isn’t guaranteed.

What if Laziness is a coping mechanism? Or maybe believing that is the actual coping mechanism. Argh, so many unanswered questions.

I just wish life had a FAQs handbook, you know? (No, not the Bible).

If you feel just like I do, sadly, I don’t have any advice to give you because I’m the one on the other end of the editing interface writing to you at 4 am.

I’m not the pretentious expert who spews out advice I heard from some TED talk on YT because I can. I’m figuring life out just like you are. I’m in my 20s and I’m still not sure if I was born to be average.

But you know what I am sure of? I will never stop chasing to be the best.

I will never give up but I will also learn to embrace the truth and realize I have limits. And those limits may or may not be beyond my control.

Because maybe life isn’t about proving you’re exceptional. Maybe it’s about learning to show up anyway.

Even when you feel like you don’t belong. On my death bed, I want to go out on my terms.

I don’t want to be tormented by the regrets that come with questions no one but me could’ve answered. What if I gave my all? What if I tried my best?

I just want a peaceful death, knowing I lived a life that was enough.

I want a satisfactory death from having lived a truly satisfactory life.

You’re going about your day, and then a song, a phrase, the name of a movie, or an inside joke just throws you off balance because it reminds you of someone you miss.

It happens every now and then. But I never imagined a scent could shatter the resolve I had to let go.

Now I’m here. Again. Haunted by what used to be. What could have been. Reminded of a love that was a half-formed promise. And that I was just being a child who was excited for nothing.

Believe me, I buried those memories. I swear.

For the longest time, I convinced myself that she was “just a girl.” I clung to that like it was my salvation. The sting of rejection couldn’t overwhelm me.

I didn’t give a big fat F.

But the truth is, that phrase never encapsulated what I really felt.

I put my heart on the line. I became vulnerable. I wrote letters, even. And I was met with indifference, mixed signals, and radio silence.

I tried. And I got tired.

A situationship is more painful than an actual, defined relationship because you’re stuck in a endless loop of what-ifs and unanswered questions:

Did she ever really care? Was I just a convenient placeholder whenever she felt bored or lonely?

Each unanswered question is a reminder of the closure I so desperately crave.

But now I know closure isn’t a neat, tidy package that gets handed to you at your convenience. It’s something you might never get. It’s a wound you will learn to live with. Dare I say—create your own closure.

I’m tired of trying to fix what was never broken. Not that it was broken—it just never worked from the start.

It’s like trying to use water to power a diesel engine. It just doesn’t work. Don’t make things worse, dumbass.

She never settled into my life. I was always halfway out of hers.

The bitter irony is, I’m left questioning my self-worth. And if I have any dignity left, I have to call it quits and stop trying.

Yes, I’m dumb. But I’m human. I learned the hard way.

But when she said she wanted us back together for the second, or was it the third time… was that real?

I remember we agreed to fix things. I did my part. She said she wanted this. She didn’t act like it.

“Create your own closure,” huh?

I’m almost there and it ends with this sad attempt to sound poetic.

But real hurt isn’t poetic all the time, so spare me this once, please?

Yes, I’m hurting. Yes, I’m questioning everything.

But maybe—just maybe—this pain will forge a new strength. A new understanding: That sometimes, the hardest part of love isn’t letting go of someone. It’s letting go of the hope that they ever truly belonged to you.

This isn’t just the end of a situationship.

It’s the beginning of learning that the heart isn’t logical.

And sometimes, self-respect means walking away even when the heart refuses to let go.

My thoughts are scrambled—scattered like sand in the wind. Writing used to help me gather them. I hope it does its trick once more.

I feel so lost.
I feel… so lost.
I feel so… lost?

Whichever it is and whatever each means, I can bet I feel all three.

Is that the right word to describe this feeling?

Perhaps there's a better word for the numbness, the exhaustion that creeps in as your body quietly surrenders while you desperately try to keep up.

I can’t slow down because behind me is a relentless sandstorm of all things but bright and beautiful. The slower I get, the faster I lose touch with reality, humanity and myself.

My eyes are heavy, my feet ache and my insides burn slightly below boiling point. But who cares though, right?

There are people worse off. I haven’t felt so mentally unstable all my life but hey, the family next door can’t afford three square meals a day and resort to begging on the streets.

For some reason, that should make me feel better. So I should stop being a loser, slap on a smile and pretend. That seems easier.

I’m told I should be grateful for the things I have. But I’m not. I don’t think I will. I find it invalidates my feelings.

I can't even call myself a loser because “loser” implies I fought and lost. But I'm barely throwing up a punch.

I'm only but a shell of whoever I'm supposed to be. I'm not the guy who dusts himself rid of regret or disappointment and gets back on the “let's fight for the life we want” horse.

Heck, that horse wandered off a long time ago. Now, I'm left wallowing in this scorching desert, hoping to stumble across a path that leads to peace of mind but every step I take gradually depletes what little of it remains.

I believe I was meant to be the one. Someone special.

But I guess my conviction goes as far as my fighting spirit. And that has failed me on more days than I can count.

So I shy from telling people my conviction. Why is it so strong? Maybe it's because it makes me feel better.

I get told “man, I see what you're doing. You inspired me to get started on an idea I had” or “you dey motivate me” but it kills me. Shut up. I'm barely hanging on.

I'm barely doing enough and when I admit that, it sounds like false humility. But I'm too drained to try harder. To do better. To be better.

So here I sit, alone in the dark, gnawing at the fact that there's another tomorrow where I have to survive, I can't help that there's something really dark creeping up behind me.

The tipping point.

And there's a slim chance I come out of the next few months in one piece.

Most people will claim to understand. They're “going through the same thing” and I hate to be the jerk who says “No, you don't” but seriously—you don't.

There's no suffering for who suffers more. There's no ‘suffering d'or’ and this desert is uniquely mine.

They say a new day comes with a new experience. And that experience could be something painful or heart-wrenching or euphoric.

They also say when there's life, there's hope. But right now, I say that's a lie. I don't want hope. I just want to rest. A big fat break.

If I live a long life, does that mean enduring this for the next fifty, sixty years? How much more does it sting when my back hurts and I have to count to three before I attempt to straighten my spine?

How much more does it sting when all my unwanted predictions were spot on? And I'm all alone.

And then what?

My story probably gets shelved with all the others—people who never reached their potential who wandered the desert until the sands swallowed them whole.

We’re at the edge,
between the deep blue sea
and the angry mob of seething fiends.

The breeze,
heavy with the taste of salt,
danced through your hair,
as if the ocean itself breathed life into the air.

The ocean howls.
And time stands still.
Your eyes find mine,
as a gentle smile escapes your lips.
“Is this it? Is this the end?”
You ask.

“Yes. What a life we lived.
No more running.
No more hiding.
Let the world hear of our love
and how we conquered all.
Even in the face of death.”

For even death yearned to live,
To experience true love as we did.
And I knew not what life meant.
Until the day we met.

And in our final chapter,
Death can only stare,
Flames dance on our heads,
As we burn for each other,
And an arrow strikes through our hearts.

Now, let us rest.
The end is near.
And I promise you,
I will find you, my love.
In this universe or the next.

The realization that we're all human beings roaming the face of the earth each with our struggles. Our beliefs. Our unique goals and dreams. And paths filled with complexities and destinies that intertwine with others.

It’s a word I only learned just recently, but the concept had always propelled me into a cogitative mood I so much enjoyed wandering in for hours.

I was seated in a hall recently. And I was disgusted by the loud chatter and how crowded it was. But then I was hit with a moment of sonder.

“Damn, are these actual people? So you mean they all have their unique lives and are pursuing goals just like I am?”

Everyone, at some point in their lives, had no idea they'd be in that hall a year ago.

Sonder.

Of all the people I could have met in my lifetime, of all the people I could have loved first, fate brought you to me.

You had your little universe. I came into yours and I became yours. We built memories together.

But as fate brought us closer, just like leaves on a stream, it also drifted us apart and now, we're back to our orbits. We'll go on to meet new people and those people will go on to meet new people.

It's an endless cycle and the realization that I'll just be an experience, a phase in your life, makes me sick to my stomach.

Sonder.

Yes, I know family is for life. But I also know that we'll be separated by distance. By circumstance. We'll have different interests. We’ll start our own families and we'll probably not go to the great beyond together. Relationships might fail. And shame coupled with disappointment will prevent us from reaching out to save them.

Sonder.

I always hear that we should live our lives as the main characters and write our destinies in the short time we spend on earth. But I'm conflicted because we're all background characters outside of our reality.

And yet, in the midst of all this—this grand, chaotic human experience—I realize something. Even though we no longer walk side by side, even though our time was brief, it mattered.

We mattered. You and I, we were real. Our friendship. Our relationship or whatever we shared. We touched each other’s lives in a way no one else could, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Sonder.

In the end, we’re all just passing through someone else’s story, playing a part in their story. Or maybe just being a weird, annoying background character that couldn’t make any real impact. You know, like an NPC in a video game.

And maybe that’s the beauty of it. We may only be brief chapters in each other’s biographies, but we exist in those pages forever.

Sonder.
That's the word of the day.

If this piece made you pause, you can follow me here on Medium. I write when I have something to say. Usually about being human.