My whole life, I’ve never really felt fulfilled.
It’s been a series of unkempt attempts —
to seek validation,
to find solace,
to taste tranquility,
to be someone’s first priority.
Every time an old photo resurfaces, or a Snap memory flashes back —
it hits like a sucker punch.
I see littler versions of me —
phases where I was obsessed with a failed man,
or lost in the need to matter to a friend who only ever used me.
In school, I wore every mask:
the topper,
the front bencher,
the back bencher,
the artist,
the class clown.
All just desperate variations of “please let me belong.”
But that somewhere?
It was always nowhere.
Now in college, I still wander —
through groups, souls, and conversations —
just trying to find a place for my own.
Even at 20, I don’t know where I belong.
Maybe it’s because I never settle.
Because I refuse to stay obedient to the “owners” of these spaces —
always chasing a better version of now.