Today I am tired.
Not only physically.
Tired of hoping.
I look at my site.
Ten visits.
Sometimes less.
I know it’s not a measure of worth,
but my body doesn’t know that.
It absorbs it.
It translates it into discouragement, into tension, into insomnia.
I feel like I’m doing everything “right.”
Writing honestly.
Not cheating.
Working, revising, publishing.
And yet… nothing.
Silence is violent.
Not a critique.
Not a clear rejection.
Just… nothing.
As if I didn’t exist.
I keep going anyway.
Not out of courage.
Out of an inability to do otherwise.
I write because I have no choice.
Because if I stop, I fade a little.
Because even when no one reads,
the text itself looks back at me.
I am hypersensitive.
Everything passes through me.
Everything touches me.
The numbers.
The absences.
The disappointed hopes.
I have no armor.
I don’t want one.
I don’t write to be “strategic.”
I don’t write to seduce an algorithm.
I write because it is my way of staying alive.
Maybe someone will stumble upon this one day.
Maybe not.
But these texts exist.
And today, that is already a lot.
