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i did not wish to write this, and yet here we go. the year has passed whether i name it or not. there was so much mastikhori in it and i do not deny that those hours gave me comfort. but comfort, i am learning, can become a kind of narcotic (it dulls the ache without healing the cause). when this year began, i had already surrendered in advance. i expected nothing, and so nothing asked much of me. there is a kind of safety in pessimism. it frees you from the responsibility of hope but it also frees you from effort, and that freedom has cost me more than i admitted at the time.
i love the part of myself that is carefree and mastikhor. yet i can no longer pretend that this part alone will carry me forward. it shelters me for a moment but it does not build a life. not thinking has helped me survive some days, but i do not want survival to be my highest ambition. i have wasted time and negligence, i am beginning to see, is another way of failing oneself. i do not want to live in the betrayal of my own capacities. if the coming year asks anything of me, let it be this that when i am tempted to drift, i remember that i owe myself more than comfort. i cannot afford to abandon myself again.
i do not believe that the turning of a calendar transforms a life. the world remains what it was, i remain who i am. and yet, perhaps this change of date offers a chance or rather an excuse to try. i am not suddenly hopeful. i do not love my life as it stands. but i am willing to work, and willingness, though modest, is not nothing. i want to read and write and learn. i have become too conscious of being seen, too careful about how my life looks rather than how it is lived. this performative instinct has thinned something essential in me, and i want it back. so 2026 i am going to be less performative, more confident, more productive, a youtube channel, lessen my instagram screentime PLEASE, write more, and love more.
