πβοΈ Aurelia
It feels as though the hours slip through my hands, yet the weight of each one presses firmly against my chest. I cannot remember the last time I worked out of curiosity, for the joy of discovery. Now, everything has become a raceβa desperate attempt to keep up with demands that multiply faster than I can breathe.
Rest is no longer rest. It is guilt disguised as comfort, a punishment wrapped in silence. The moment I pause, the ticking grows louder, reminding me of unfinished tasks, of people I may disappoint, of futures I may never reach.
And so, I move. Not because I want to, but because I must. Every step feels like an obligation, every breath a negotiation between what I need and what the world expects of me. The medals on the wall lose their shine; they weigh heavier than any failure I have ever known.
Perhaps this is what it means to live in constant pursuit: to win and yet feel behind, to survive but never truly feel alive.
