Well. We meet again. And you know what that means. I failed again.

Crazy how my world can change in a minute, a day, a year — everything happens all at once, everywhere — and in the same vein, I can lose all of that in what, at least to me, looks like the blink of an eye.

And here is where I always end up picking up pieces and shrapnels after the fallout.

With my head bowed and my confidence at it’s lowest, I come back here. Every few times a year or sometimes even after many years.

To write. To dissect. To post-mortem my way into a new mindset, a new strategy, a new idea, a new chance.

And I am fucking tired of it.

I was fucking tired then and so damn fucking tired now.

What. The. Fact. Did. I. Fact. Up. And. Down. This. Time. Around.

Every single time I go so much as lift a fucking finger, something in the universe collapses and I create a goddamn blackhole.

I sit around the edges — the freaking event horizon or whatever the heck they call it — and instead of being sucked up into this wormhole and turned into a soggy spaghetti, something much worse happens — I fucking survive.

Yes my friends. I live to tell the tale and bear that scarlet-letter-kind-of-shame across my chest, emblazoned and branded like the pariah I probably deserve to be.

The ultimate punishment, as we’ve all probably realized by now in 2026 as I write this, what with the possibility of alien invasion, freaking ww3 and terminator AGI, crashing pretend-economy, soul-devouring social media — is not death. The punishment is survival. Come to think of it, if you believe in hell, that’s actually how they described it in the Bible if I recall correctly.

The punishment is eternal damnation. Over and over and over again. YOU. WILL. SURVIVE. ANOTHER. DAY. TO. SUFFER. AD. INFINITUM. AD. NAUSEUM.

To do nothing is to fail. To do something — anything — is to fail even harder.

But you know what? FUCK IT. FUCK IT GOOD. FUCK IT PROUD. Because YOU or I do not have an ACTUAL choice. We have “some kind” of choice. “Some level” of choice. Some kind of control. Some level of control. We have SOMETHING.

And in this fucked-up world of seemingly ending barrage of NOTHINGNESS and MEANINGLESS — YOU HAVE SOMETHING. So I guess the question to ask and pursue now is WHAT THE FUCK IS OUR SOMETHING???

What is MY SOMETHING? What is YOUR SOMETHING?

What is it that YOU ULTIMATELY EVENTUALLY COME BACK TO when everything has gone complete batshit SNAFU on you? Find it. Hold on to it tight and don’t let go. Let it be that tiny glimmer of light in your long tunnel of darkness. Let it be the anchor that keeps you steady and grounded. Let it be the north star you follow when the internet is down. Let it be the voice that reassures you that it’s going to be fine. Maybe not today. But someday. One day.

My SOMETHING is writing. It is the only constant in my ever-changing dizzying life of serial failures. It lights up my path, pulls me steady and points me to the direction of safety. And while it has never brought me success, it has given me something so much more. It has given me meaning and clarity. Time and time again. And when everything’s been blown apart and lost to oblivion, it is meaning that makes surviving not a perpetual hell, but a path to relief — to hope — and who knows — maybe eventually, if we live long enough — to even some kind of heaven and hey, that’s something.

If you’re struggling right now:

You don’t have to go through it alone. If you’re in the Philippines, you can contact the National Center for Mental Health Crisis Hotline at 1553 or 0917 899 8727 (USAP). If you’re outside the Philippines, you can find a local crisis line at findahelpline.com. If you feel you’re in immediate danger, please contact your local emergency services.