In a Borrowed Body, Bound for the Horizon

In a Borrowed Body, Bound for the Horizon

There is a specific kind of silence that isn’t a lack of noise, but the sheer weight of existence.

For a long time now, I’ve written about the isolation within, the ruthless monotony of daily routine, and the feelings that slowly wear a person down. But the heaviest part is this hollow sensation when I give—wholeheartedly and without reserve—only to receive almost nothing in return. It’s not about expectation. It’s just that it would feel so good to know my voice isn’t falling on deaf ears in the dark. To know that somewhere on the other end, someone is actually listening.

Meanwhile, my body just... exists. It doesn’t feel like mine. It’s as if my soul merely borrowed it for this passage, but whoever lent it gave me the absolute worst quality imaginable. So I drag it around like a heavy, ill-fitting garment that pinches and constricts wherever I go.

I’ve become an outsider. An observer standing quietly on the margins of my own life—and there are no words in the human language that can truly describe this kind of detachment.

My only desire is to leave this land behind. This isn't my world. It never was. And now, finally, I have a chance to board a flight, tear up my anchors, and never look back. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know with absolute certainty that I have no future here.

My only true joy, my sole calling, is my writing. It’s the single thread keeping me tethered to reality. But art doesn’t put food on the table. So I work—relentlessly, exhaustingly, for a pittance—just to survive.

To survive.

What is the point? Working a job you hate, living a life you don't love. A few years pass, I evaporate into nothing, and no one will miss me. I will cease to exist. I will be forgotten. They say we leave marks behind—I’ve left mine, too. But is that enough? Is a footprint in the sand enough before the first wave washes it away? I don’t know.

Yet here I stand, right at the threshold. I buy the plane ticket, clutching the unknown in my hand, and I hope. Because even if there’s no guarantee of staying alive, there is still a chance to fly.