You are what you are, Julian, and your echo will be as dark as your life.

One of these games, you’re going to lose.

Is hope as human as fear? Are both lies to avoid what we’ve always known, what we sense since birth, what we euphemize with religion? Is the end its definition? Is the void nothing? Is death the same?

Fight this, Sira. No excuses. No regrets. Die as you lived.

I was self-loathing and self-abusive—I hurt myself before and more than anyone could hurt me.

I fell for them both. Hard. My balance shifted, my focus faded, and the ground tilted beneath my feet. An avalanche led toward them, no matter how high I climbed.

Each word is quieter than the last. Each sentence reaches back through time.

For most, handwriting reveals character. For me, the pen is a weapon in my arsenal, the ink a splatter of personalities I rotate between. Each blot is a Rorschach test only I can see. I am not one character; I am an ensemble.

Karma dissects my mind and rewires my soul.