engr.albertmike

Good day! I hope this message finds you well.  I am writing to inform you that... I was unwell. Struggling and unable. Anxious, sad, but not depressed. Agoraphobic. Still wasn't healed. When you said you overcame yours in just two weeks You always call to gather us, for some guidance, catch-ups When you're just wasting our time with your memoirs This meeting could've been an email.  I tried. I tried, trust me. For me, it was nothing.  There are factors we can't control. Sucking it all up makes you gasp for air. I chased your time for some advice, for some comfort.  From 8 AM, I sat down with you at 1 PM.  Expecting a father or a leader. "As long as you have time for sleeping, as long as you have time for eating, as long as you have time for bathing, you haven't sacrificed things, you've not given it all." Those words killed me. Your face terrified me. Your voice makes me want silence. Your presence makes me seek solace. Your intelligence redefines the ...

Thirty-four, quiet, and might be kind, sends music to friends he struggles to find. Not top forty hits or radio air, but songs with strange rhythms, raw and rare. Synths like The Strike, lyrics too deep, notes that echo from wounds he keeps. He sends them out like messages in bottles, hoping for nods, replies full-throttle. Sounds like he wanna share. Might be joy he seldom feels. Or to start reconnection, that on himself, he cannot restore. But no one bites, no hearts ignite, they skim, they skip, they swipe past night. "It's not my genre," they quietly say, and the songs fall silent, fade away. Still, he scrolls endlessly, slowly, through the names of friends he used to know. Looking for one who might just hear the beauty behind what others fear. His playlist grows; his inbox stays still, but he sends the songs with stubborn will. A quiet chorus behind each play: “This is me; do you hear me anyway?”