I’ve turned 33 yesterday.
But somehow…
it feels like 100.
By this age,
I thought I’d have some of it figured out.
Or at least have something steady
to stand on.
But in that past year alone,
I’ve lost more than I gained:
my room — twice,
my comfort,
my job — twice
and half of whatever remains
of my sanity.
No backup plan.
No offers waiting.
Savings thinning.
A dying laptop — again.
And no light in sight.
Home isn’t a refuge.
It’s a battlefield scattered with landmines.
Where any step can set off an argument.
Where you shrink
so others can breathe.
Where love is something some must earn,
while others receive it freely.
Where one is always painted as the villain,
while others remain innocent.
Even the chance of starting over —
the quiet I thought I might find —
feels almost impossible to reach now.
A career that took twelve years to build
collapsed in only six months.
So here I am.
33.
That glorious, critical age.
Carrying the weight
of a 100-year-old soul.
Still moving forward…
with whatever little energy
I have left.
