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Pressure at Stake

I sit before the screen, struggling to summon the words.

I love existentialism in thought and theory—
yet when I try to write,
the dread overwhelms me.

I stopped taking my meds—
the numbness was louder than the pain.
I needed to feel something,
even the demons inside me.

I love what I do—truly, I do.
But I can’t move.
My mind is still,
heavy with fog.
I’m stuck.
I type, I think, I pour—
but still,
dread overtakes me.

My supervisor—
precise, but gentle—
told me my work had everything,
and yet, nothing.
It lacked depth.
I cried.
Hard.
Right there, in front of him.

Not out of shame.
Not out of embarrassment.
But because something inside me feels lost.
I hated myself.
Still do.
And yet—
here I am.
At my desk,
crying, dreading,
still trying
as inevitable doom looms over me.

Still, I’m here.
Writing this, not what I’m supposed to.
I cry—
but the tears are hollow.

Still here…
am I?
I hope that counts for something.
I hope.
I really do hope so badly.

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