I kept a blog that became a reflection of my mind—chaotic, fragmented, yet brutally honest. It wasn’t just a collection of thoughts; it was a lifeline, a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that felt like it was crumbling around me. Writing was the only way I knew to process the noise in my head. Page after page, I poured out my fears, my suspicions, my heartbreak.But the hardest part? It wasn’t writing those words; it was looking back at them later.The blog grew with an intensity that mirrored my psychosis. Every entry was a snapshot of my spiralling thoughts, each one more fragmented than the last. I wrote about the people in the office next door, convinced they were part of some grand conspiracy. I dissected every lyric from the songs I heard, convinced they were messages meant for me. And I wrote about my belief that the world was watching me, that I was somehow the centre of this dark, twisted performance.There were moments of clarity, too—fleeting glimpses where I begged t...
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