Time doesn’t heal sh*t.

Time doesn’t heal, it hides. It shoves the pain deeper until I almost forget it’s there. But forgetting isn’t healing. It’s just hitting snooze on something that’ll explode later middle of the night, middle of work, even in the middle of a good day. It’s like stepping on a landmine I buried myself.

And I keep lying to myself with this whole “soon” story. Soon I’ll feel better. Soon I’ll start. Soon I’ll be ready. But “soon” never comes. “Soon” just eats up every idea I wanted to chase and leaves me with nothing but excuses.

The messed-up part? The chaos is actually the fuel. The anger, the sadness, the itch I can’t shake it’s the current I keep fighting instead of riding. When I block it out, it piles up and crushes me. But when I let it through, something finally moves.

There’s no perfect moment. I keep waiting for it, but it’s not real. The only time anything feels alive is when I drag all this mess straight into the work. That’s the only way I move, the only way I even start to heal.