She walked in with a quiet presence, reserved but not unsure. There was a shyness to her, but not the kind that shrinks away — well, maybe a little. It was self-contained, unbothered, like she had no need to explain herself to the world, and I envied that. I knew, immediately, I was losing. I stole glances through the corner of my eye, savoring fleeting moments of unnoticeable contact as she moved about. Just as I was about to resign myself to another wasted chance, my new buddy from the French countryside, Quinton, asked her — as if it were the most natural thing in the world — if she’d like to join us for dinner. To my surprise, she looked at us and agreed without hesitation. Somehow, Quinton stepped away, and suddenly it was just me and her in the cramped ground floor of the hostel — a narrow Japanese house where the kitchen, dining, and living all blurred into one small room. Forced closer than normalcy dictates, we stood facing each other. The air was thick with unspoken words. I took a slow breath, sweat forming on my brow as I searched for an opening. Alright. Time to speak. “Hey.” Her gaze held me — cool, steady, and open — warming my chest with unexpected ease. My words fumbled, my thoughts scrambled, but somehow, between mismatched steps and scattered pauses, the space softened. A shared laugh here, a lingering glance there. The tension melted into something gentle. Like sunlight filtering through autumn leaves. She could go from understated and contemplative to laughing like an idiot with me on a crowded train, trying to explain the worst curse words we knew. Gaesekki and cnts.* I can still hear that surprised, breathless laugh, like even she didn’t expect to find something so funny. One night, we huddled under the narrow roof gutter of a 7/11, seeking shelter from the rain. Fat drops slipped past the overhang, dotting our clothes, sliding down our skin. The neon glow barely reached us. The hum of vending machines, the hiss of passing cars — silence thick between.

Some days I write like sludge spilling out. But even sludge moves. A good line isn’t perfect — it just pulls you forward. And forward is what matters. I live at a crossroads. Truth is, when am I not? My inner state shifts in cycles. Every few weeks a new weather front moves in. The one who observes it all grows stronger, though not always happier. Maybe happiness isn’t his role. People in history rarely asked if they were happy. They built cities, survived winters, endured plagues. They aimed at survival. Happiness was incidental. Our generation faces a different enemy. Material threats recede, leaving a void. The old myths collapse, the sky goes blank, and dissatisfaction has nowhere to land. Once, blame could be thrown at famine or invasion. Now the arrows turn inward: Why didn’t I study harder? Eat better? Become more? Progress makes every fault feel personal, every disappointment a verdict against the self. But I’ve seen what happens when I grant myself micro-myths — small quests, personal arcs, fires lit by my own hand. When I stop rejecting my life as “average” and treat it as a story, direction returns. I’ve proven it before: in games, on the basketball court, in the ring — even in business, starting from nothing and shaping something with my own hands. None of these were accidents. They were quests, proof I could bend reality, however briefly, to my will. Depression whispers those fires are gone, but memory argues otherwise. The coals are still warm. And when I write, or step outside, or connect with another human being, sparks rise. They always do. Maybe the world no longer offers us grand myths carved in marble. Maybe it doesn’t need to. The age of gods and banners has passed. The age of torches is here — millions of small fires carried in human hands. Meaning spreads sideways now, not from mountaintops. And when I light my torch, others see it. Their smiles reflect the fire back to me. That loop is sacred. That loop is proof. The stars were never lost. They’ve only been waiting — for us to lift our torches, to join our fires, until the sky itself begins to burn bright again.

Survival Notes for the Spiritually Exhausted I. Understand the Terrain “Depression isn’t a flaw — it’s the emotional echo of a culture with no center.” You’re not broken. You’re just awake in a world that lost the manual.Everything feels hollow because the scaffolding is gone: God, Nation, Progress, Destiny — they’re not doing what they used to.You’re not failing. You’re unmoored. Name the fog. That’s step one. ✅ TOOL: Ask yourself — what system of meaning did I lose?Faith? Structure? A role? A vision?That’s the crack the cold came in through. II. Reject Passive Despair “Numbness is the easy death.” Despair feels honest but it’s a trap. It seduces you into stillness.Feeling awful means you still care. That pain? That’s protest.Do not hand your agency over to the void. ✅ TOOL: Journal like a tactician. Map, don’t vent.Name the terrain: your patterns, your spirals, your sharp turns.You’re not drowning — you’re learning to read currents. III. Embrace the Micro-Myth “When the sky offers no stars, light your own.” No grand story coming to save you? Good. Build smaller ones.Personal myths. Quiet quests.Meaning that fits you and doesn’t need to make sense to anyone else. ✅ TOOL: Make a damn Quest Log.Name the challenge. Name what “victory” looks like — physically, emotionally, existentially.This is your game now. IV. Track the Embers “You’ve done this before. You’ve burned brighter before. Find those memories.” Your wins weren’t accidents. They’re receipts.Proof that you can shape the world, even when it’s heavy.Your past isn’t just a story — it’s evidence. ✅ TOOL: List 3 moments you felt fully yourself.What were you doing? What energy was there? What clicked?That’s your compass. Don’t ignore it. V. Build Meaning Sideways “Meaning is social. Myth spreads through mirrors.” It’s not about preaching. Just being visible in your honesty is enough.When you burn, others catch the spark. It’s not top-down. It’s side-to-side.You’re part of something whether you see it or not.