January 25th, 2026.
A Sunday. The kind of day that doesn't announce itself with fanfare or urgencyno deadlines, no alarms, no expectations. Just stillness. Quiet peace. A rare pocket of time where the world seems to hold its breath, and for once, your mind isn't racing toward the next crisis or replaying old wounds. There's no rule here yetno judgment, no performance, no one measuring your worth by productivity, appearance, or how well you "cope."
For now, it's just you and the silence. And in that silence, something fragile stirs: clarity.
You know this calm won't last. You've lived long enoughand painfully enoughto understand that peace is often just the space between storms. "They've soon to come," you write, and the "they" is vague but heavy. Maybe it's responsibilities. Maybe it's voices. Maybe it's the slow return of routines that grind you down, people who misunderstand you, systems that weren't built for minds like yours. Whatever "they" are, you know they bring pain. Suffering. And worst of allfutility. That gnawing sense that nothing you do matters, that effort dissolves into air, that healing is a myth sold to the desperate.
But here's the quiet rebellion in your words: "So live your days to your fullest and be better than yesterday."
Not perfect. Not heroic. Not even "happy." Just… fuller. And better not in comparison to others, but to your own past self. One percent more grounded. One breath deeper. One meal finished instead of half-abandoned. One moment where you chose kindness over self-critique. That's the victory.
Because "living fully" doesn't mean grand adventures or viral moments. For someone carrying what you carry schizophrenia, grief over lost friendships, the weight of being too empathetic in a numb worldliving fully might mean sitting outside for five minutes without headphones. It might mean texting a friend back, even if your hands shake. It might mean listening to Montagem Eclipse one more time and letting the bass drown out the static in your head, just for a while.
And "better than yesterday"? That's not about achievement. It's about continuity. It's refusing to let suffering erase your humanity. Yesterday, maybe you slept through the whole day. Today, you woke up at 6 p.m.but you wrote. You reflected. You reached out into the void with words, hoping someone might hear. That's growth. That's courage disguised as routine.
The world loves to equate "better" with success: grades, jobs, relationships, followers. But real betterness is internal. It's choosing not to bash your head against the wall when the voices scream. It's eating a snack without guilt. It's stepping down as Class Representative not out of failure, but self-preservationknowing your limits and honoring them. That's wisdom. That's strength.
You've seen the dark side of structurethe "rules" that judge life before it's even lived. Schools that punish neurodivergence. Families that confuse love with control. Societies that call men like you "weak" for feeling deeply. You've watched friends drift away because your pain made them uncomfortable. You've been told, directly or indirectly, that your existence is inconvenient.
But today? Today has no rules. No jury. No verdict. Just you, your thoughts, and the soft hum of a Sunday afternoon. And in this unguarded moment, you're allowed to simply be not fixed, not healed, not "over it," but present. Human. Worthy of peace, even if it's temporary.
Hold onto this. Not as an escape, but as fuel.
Because when the pain returnsand it willyou can remember: there was a day when nothing happened, and that was enough. When the world didn't demand anything from you, and you didn't owe it anything in return. And in that emptiness, you found something full: the quiet dignity of existing on your own terms.
So yeslive your days to your fullest. Not for applause. Not for legacy. But because you deserve to taste life, even if it's bitter sometimes. Even if "full" just means feeling the sun on your skin for ten seconds. Or writing a sentence that finally captures the ache inside. Or whispering to yourself, "I'm still here."
And be better than yesterdaynot because you have to earn your place in the world, but because you refuse to let despair have the final word. Better doesn't mean cured. It means continuing. Choosing, again and again, to show upeven if it's messy, even if it's slow, even if no one notices.
You don't need permission to take up space. You don't need to justify your rest, your music, your unconventional rhythms. The plain old days matter. The quiet ones. The ones where nothing "happens" but everything shifts inside you.
So breathe. Rest. Listen to your phonk. Laugh at your own dark jokes. Think about photons and infinity if it calms your mind. Eat more than half your lunch tomorrow, if you can. And if you can't? That's okay too. Just be kinder to yourself than yesterday.
Because in a world that thrives on chaos, judgment, and exhaustionyour peace is resistance.
Your presence is protest.
And your choice to keep going, even quietly, is its own kind of revolution.