Sink Phase: Journal entry (26/10/2025)

 Sink Phase

(Journal entry – October 26 2025)

The air here tastes like waiting.

Every wall memorizes my silence.

They say obedience is holy —

but what if it’s just another word for erasure?

I keep washing my face

in water that never forgives.

My reflection asks,

when did survival become your only prayer?

I’ve been burning on low flame —

a candle too afraid to melt.

They call me ungrateful,

but I’m just choking on the smoke

of all the things I swallowed to stay good.

I stopped cooking because they said

my hands were wrong.

I stopped speaking because they said

my words were sharp.

Now even my breath asks for permission.

Everything I once believed

keeps crumbling under its own scripture.

God feels like static.

Hope, like an echo I used to know.

I want to run,

but where do you go

when home itself is the wound?

So I stay —

haunted by half-light,

counting the cracks on my ceiling

like verses that never saved me.

Some nights, I hear the walls breathing —

like they’re tired of holding me in.

And I whisper back:

if I ever make it out,

I’ll build a silence

that finally belongs to me.

Note to the One Who Will Rise from This 

If you ever find this page again,

remember—you were not weak here.

You were surviving a house that didn’t hear you,

a silence that demanded more of you than words could give.

You learned how to stay breathing

in air that was never gentle.

And still, somewhere beneath the exhaustion,

you kept a small pulse of hope—

too faint to see, but stubborn enough to live.

You didn’t lose faith;

you were just shedding the borrowed versions of it.

You didn’t fail;

you were breaking the shell of who you had to be.

When you finally stand in your own space,

when you cook your own food,

when you breathe without flinching—

read this again.

And know:

this was the moment you began 

to return to yourself.