The grass and trees surge with life, yet I am still who I am.
Long hours of intense study are not always fulfilling. Sometimes they make me feel left behind by the world. Everything moves forward at its own rhythm—but I don’t. Often, stagnation has a meaning; reflection is a kind of stagnation. It forces me to hurt myself, to think about the past rather than the future, to wonder how I arrived here instead of where I’m going next.
Moving forward often feels false. I grab whatever I can from my surroundings, chasing a goal that society says is right and acceptable. Did I become better? To some extent, yes—but the improvement feels borrowed, as if I’m walking in someone else’s shoes. Beneath the surface of achievement, I still hide who I truly am. I can’t fully face myself—honestly, I’m afraid.
I don’t want to lose everything around me. I fear the ground beneath me might not be stable; I fear that sunlight will no longer make me happy. I fear I will always feel pain, even if no one has truly harmed me. I fear that people might stop liking me, that my effort to be good might not be enough to be loved.
Yet amid those fears, a fragile hope persists. I want to wake up early every day and feel the morning air touch my skin. I want to face a rising sun, not a setting one. I want to feed myself and stop crying so easily. I want to stop staring into the dark night with eyes wide open and instead, close them with peace. Maybe one day, reflection will not mean paralysis but understanding—and the stillness I once called fear will quietly become a kind of beginning.