I have been to festivals and networking events this year. Everyone who hears I’m a screenwriter has the same “Who’s a good boy?” reaction that I give my dog when he brings me a toy.

• You’re not a good person.

• You let yourself off the hook for everything.

• You blame others but never change yourself.

• You go silent until the words explode like a geyser of molten rage.

• Life would be better if you were to disappear.

Race day came.
Fireworks. Music. Adrenaline. Then: silence in my head.

Truth is, I’m fucking exhausted.

So I sit here, waiting for paint to dry and for some kind of meaning to crawl out of all this mess.

That’s not trolling.
That’s not trolling. That’s intimidation, plain and simple.

And just like that, 2025 walked up and kicked me square in the teeth the second I got home.

You ever feel like you’re just running from anxiety and it’s always right behind you? Yeah, me too. Here’s the truth: you can’t out-hustle it. Stop pretending you can.

I didn’t see compassion.
I didn’t see curiosity.
I saw propaganda in meme form.

And I broke.

That’s what ghosts do. We whisper from the other side.

They’re not memories.
They’re not fantasies.
They’re visitations.

It’s not the thought that counts anymore. It’s the presentation.

I’ve done things I wouldn’t forgive in someone else. I’ve said things I’d crucify a stranger for. But when the guilty man is in your own skin, where the hell are you supposed to go?

I’m not here for your comfort.
I’m not here for your applause.

I’m angry that I believed the lie that said “you have time.”

Confidence doesn’t come from your bio.
It comes from your bruises.

The eyes said, Please believe me. Please see me. Please pick me.

One day, this will all be over.

Rage kept me warm.
Sarcasm made me bearable.
A good playlist made me dangerous.
And the people who left me taught me how to stay.

There is no cavalry.
There is no last-minute rescue.
There’s just you.