In the quiet moments, I sit alone with my thoughts, feeling isolated, yet knowing that I am loved. The paradox of feeling disconnected from the world, even when there’s love around, is a weight that’s become all too familiar. I’ve been meaning to pour my heart out in my blog, but I keep putting it off. It feels like I’ve complained too much already, and the people in my daily life don’t seem to notice or care.

Lately, it’s been a series of people who enter my life, only to shove me aside when everything is fine, and reach out desperately when something has gone horribly wrong. It’s as if I’m invisible until disaster strikes. The constant cycle leaves me questioning my worth, my beauty, and my place in this world. I can’t help but feel like an absolute burden, reduced to being a paycheck at the end of a long, unexciting workweek.

But now, I must excuse myself back to the desk I’m tied to for 40 hours a week, where the solitude of each unexciting day defines my current existence. I’ll continue to carry these feelings of isolation, knowing deep down that love exists, but somehow remains just out of reach.