The last quarter of 2023 for me is still a blur.

In late September, I quit my job and soon after, by mid-October, I was on a plane to Davao City. I haven’t left.

That’s the easy part to recall. What’s harder is the stretch in between: the three weeks confined in a hospital, the sickness that didn’t require surgery but ended with a diagnosis of a life-long illness. It was a swift, brutal re-education in fragility. Then, just as I was adjusting, the second quarter of 2024 brought the next challenge: eye surgery.

And now, here I am. I’m typing these words without any plan for the rest of my life.

I have spent countless hours wondering why I’m still alive.

Honestly, I feel like I have nothing left to live for. I desperately search for a meaning, a reason, a purpose for why I’m still here. My life before—the career, the routine, the expectations—is nothing more than a collection of memories I desperately cling to, for reasons I can no longer articulate.

Most days, I feel like a zombie. I wake up just to wait for the sunset, only to repeat the same empty cycle the next day. I’m living, yes, but I am utterly purposeless and aimless. The body keeps moving, but the drive is gone.

Still, I’m here. For now.