Journal Entry 02/10/2024
I often tell myself that I have very little to offer—to my family, my friends, or the community I care about. Yet, a part of me still clings to the hope that these reflections might actually mean something to someone. It might be wishful thinking, but I suspect many of us carry these quiet doubts, even if we never say them out loud.
I’m caught in a strange middle ground: I know I’m not “learned” enough to contribute in a conventional way, but I know myself well enough to recognize that the thoughts I carry have weight. It makes me wonder how I’ll be remembered. Maybe as someone who struggled with the essence of existence, or someone who couldn’t quite reconcile with reality. If that’s the case, I have to ask myself why I keep exposing myself to judgment. Why do I keep hoping someone will find meaning in these words?
Perhaps I’ll just fade into the background. In the grand scheme of things, maybe that’s fine. My mother is nearing the end of her journey, but then again, we all are. Death is the one thing we all face, yet we spend our lives building illusions of permanence, acting as if it’s a distant problem until it finally catches us off guard. As difficult as it is to accept, I’m almost grateful that cancer has forced us to look at this truth—that life is fleeting, and nothing is permanent.
I’m working on a project now, trying to give it an hour a day. Consistency is a struggle; I still forget the small habits I try to build, like something as simple as watering the plants. I just hope I don’t abandon this effort the way I’ve walked away from things in the past. I’d like to believe that, in some small way, this project will leave a trace of me behind—something worth remembering, even if it’s only for a short while.
