December 10, 2025

Dear universe,

My skin and bones know not of any ailment. But I own a diseased mind. It is with great despair that I loathfully declare that the time is seethingly lazy for me. He passes by awfully slow. My sore limps can no more bear the burden of this wretched year. I want to burn this wood she snake year- better yet skin it.  It has harmed my soul, exhausted my mirth and drained my worth. My pillows are too wet. Freezing silence have hijacked my apartment. My bed is dreadfully enormous for me. 

When I become 25, I want this pain to evaporate. When my brain fully develops, I wish my regret will escape from the loose seams of my weathered self. Nine days before my cells start dying forevermore. 

On the 11th, I am not feeding my gluttonous stress. 

On the 12th, I am wiping all inch of my apartment. I am embracing all the connection. 

On the 13th,  I am taking it slow.

On the 14th, I am breathing and preparing. 

On the 15th, I am working and walking for my future.

 On the 16th, I am happy that everything is working out for me.

 On the 17th, I m grateful and kind.

 On the 18th, I forgive myself for relaxing. On my birthday, I applaud myself for surviving and swim in my hobbies.

When my body starts dying, my soul will thrive.