Dearest gentle reader,

There comes a time when a soul does not shatter all at once but crumbles quietly, piece by piece, until it is nothing more than an echo of what it used to be. And so, I lay before you the remnants of myself, a collection of wounds disguised as a person.

I, with eyes that no longer weep—for grief, when stretched too thin over the years, dries up like a riverbed that has forgotten the taste of rain.

I, with a heart that has long since ceased its reckless beating. Oh, it still moves, in the way that broken things do, but it does not hope, does not yearn—only lingers, an ***** fulfilling its duty, no longer its desire.

I, who breathe not out of longing but out of habit. The air enters, the air leaves, but I cannot recall the last time a breath felt like life rather than obligation.

I, whose skin has been etched with stories I never wished to tell. The marks run deep, invisible to most, yet they whisper their truth in the quiet moments when the world forgets to look away.

I, whose feet have wandered far, carrying me across endless roads in search of peace, only to find it always a step beyond my reach.

And so, dear reader, you may ask—what, then, was the cause of my undoing? But that is a question with no single answer. Did I die when my dreams withered? When my laughter grew hollow? When I first learned the cruel weight of goodbye? Or have I not died at all, but merely become something else—something caught between existing and fading?

Know this—though my time of death cannot be named, it was not today. No, today I still stand, still breathe, still forge onward with quiet defiance. For some of us, survival is not a gift but a choice, made anew with every rising sun.

Yours most wearily,
A heart still beating—if only just.
~Rodgers