It’s 3 a.m.
You’re in the bathroom again.
Not sick, not drunk—just unraveling.
Pulling at your own damn hair in silence,
because even your soul’s tired of hearing the sound of your failure.
You stare into the mirror—hollow-eyed, puffy-faced,
and ask the question that’s been clawing at your insides for years:
What the fuck happened?
How old are you now?
What compromises did you make that turned into full-blown surrender?
You settled. That’s what happened.
Somewhere along the line you veered left when life screamed right,
and now you’re living the ghost of a life that was never meant for you.
And it’s not just regret.
It’s grief.
Because there was a version of you—once.
Wild-eyed. Hungry. Unapologetically alive.
A version that believed in big things, beautiful things,
a version that could’ve set the whole damn world on fire.
But that version died.
Quietly.
No funeral.
No one noticed—not even you.
You just stopped chasing.
You let comfort wrap its soft, choking hands around your neck.
Called it maturity. Called it responsibility.
But it was death. The slow kind.
And now you pretend this version of you is fine.
You smile at parties. Pay your bills.
You eat your kale and scroll your feed and say things like,
“It’s not so bad.”
But you feel it, don’t you?
That echoing emptiness.
That quiet fucking scream that never really shuts up.
The real tragedy isn’t that you lost yourself.
It’s that you let go of the fight.
You traded chaos for calm,
passion for paycheck,
fire for fluorescent lighting.
So ask yourself—
Are you really alive?
Or are you just keeping your body warm until the grave?
Because the life you wanted,
the one that made your chest beat like a war drum—
it’s still out there.
But not forever.
The clock’s ticking, sweetheart.
The question is—
do you still have the guts to go get it?
