04/01/25 Today, for the first time in days, I felt something that resembles hope. I couldn’t visit my grandfather again, but something different happened. I finally printed the first draft of my novel. Holding those pages in my hands, after everything that’s happened, gave me a strange sense of relief. I signed it with a dedication to him, a small gesture that I hope reminds him how much I love and admire him, even from a distance. Later, my grandmother sent me photos and videos of my grandfather from the hospital. He looks so much better, more lively. I’d even say happy, or at least with that strength that has always defined him. Seeing him like that gave me a relief I didn’t expect, as if the weight on my chest lightened just a bit. For a moment, all the chaos of the past days paused. Thinking that he’s making progress, that things are truly improving, fills me with gratitude. Maybe not everything is lost. Maybe, after so many setbacks, things are finally starting to take a different turn. Today, I felt a small ray of light, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to smile.


03/01/25 Hunger no longer matters to me. I’ve stopped eating because the emptiness I feel inside is bigger than any physical need. Sadness takes everything with it, and with it, it takes the desire to nourish myself. It’s not that I don’t feel hunger, but it’s as if my body can no longer bear that weight, as if everything I consume only adds more to the burden I carry. Sometimes, I force myself to swallow, but my stomach turns and the taste lingers in my mouth, as if everything I try to consume harms me even more. I can no longer enjoy anything, not even what I once liked. Everything has become a futile effort, an empty routine that simply meets the basic protocol of survival, without purpose or will. And my mind focuses once again on the problems I can’t solve. On the coding, on trying to create something to fill the space left behind, even though that too becomes toxic. The hyperfocus that used to be my refuge turns into an obsession that won’t let me breathe. I can’t stop thinking about lines of code, about how I could improve a fragment here and there, while my life crumbles around it. It’s strange, as if I can only exist in that space, but at the same time, it drains me, consumes me in a way I can no longer control. It’s like being trapped between two worlds: one where reality crushes me, and another where the code is the only thing I can control, but in the end, none of it matters. I can’t escape what I am, what I feel. And even though I try to put all my being into something that distracts me, in the end, I’m left with an emptiness bigger than before.


02/01/25 The year changed, but everything remains the same. Maybe worse, if I’m being honest. Sometimes I think time is just a cruel joke, moving forward no matter how much everything around falls apart. Yesterday, while everyone tried to celebrate something I couldn’t feel, I took refuge in the only thing that seems to make sense: Neocities pages. I spent the entire night exploring other Neocities pages, and yes, this section is also inspired by the goddess Zimmykins. I’ve been studying her page, and I love her way of coding and decorating, so I try to make mine as similar to her structure as possible. At the end of last year, everything collapsed. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, they did. There’s no pretty way to say it: everything was bad, and "bad" doesn’t even begin to describe it. On the 31st, during Nochevieja (Mexico's New Year's Eve tradition), I ate all twelve grapes and made just one wish: for things to get better at home. I want my family to be okay, for the problems to disappear—I just want everything to be fine and peaceful. Today, the weight is still there. I went to my grandmother’s house to bring her some food, and from there, we had to go to the pharmacy and then to the hospital. It felt like every moment was drenched in worry and exhaustion, but I kept going. At my grandmother’s house, I drew a realistic horse for my grandfather, something I know he would love. Horses have always been his favorite, and I wanted to give him something personal, something to remind him that he’s cared for. It felt like a small gesture, but one I hope will make him smile when he sees it. I’ve decided I’ll go to the hospital every day until his operation. I want to be there, even if just on the sidelines, bringing small gifts and showing him he’s not alone. Now it’s 2025, and I’m still writing, coding, trying to shape something, even if it’s just a webpage only I understand. Because, even though everything feels the same, I want to believe that, at some point, something will change. I have to believe it.


01/01/25 The first day of the year brought no change, just a continuation of the disaster that was December 2024. The night found me at the hospital, where everything feels both frozen in time and in constant motion leading nowhere. My grandfather had been hit by a car and was hospitalized, and I couldn’t see him. When I arrived, I greeted the supervisor, carrying my grandmother’s things on my shoulder like a visa to enter my grandfather’s room. He denied me access but suggested I speak with the hospital directors to make an exception. The directors explained that since I’m a minor, they couldn’t let me in. They said that even though I’m close to turning 18, they would still be responsible if my wounds got infected—especially since I have visible scratches and small cuts. The razor, my cat... nothing serious, no self-harm or anything, but still, it’s hard to ignore marks on your hands. I’m certain those were the main reason they wouldn’t let me in. In the end, I had to accept their rules, though inside, it felt like something was being ripped from me. I had prepared a gift for my grandfather. Something simple but heartfelt—a card with a cat wishing him a Happy New Year and saying I believed everything would be okay. A small lie that somehow calmed me. Since I couldn’t give it to him directly, I handed it to my grandmother to pass along. That small gesture, which should have made me feel useful, broke me. I wanted to see him, talk to him, ensure he knew I was there, but all I could do was wait outside the hospital, exhausted and powerless, waiting for my uncle to take over as caregiver. While I waited outside, some girls came by offering sandwiches. With a smile, they asked if I wanted one. I don’t know why I said no. Maybe because accepting something in that moment felt like admitting how fragile I was, and I didn’t want to give them that power. I stayed there with empty hands, staring at the hospital as if I could change something just by willing it. When I left the hospital, everything fell apart. The tears came suddenly, as if they had been held back for hours. The moment I crossed the doors, I couldn’t hold them in anymore. Thinking about my grandfather, alone in a hospital bed, tore me apart. Nothing could soothe me—not the early morning chill, not the exhaustion, not even the thought that maybe I could see him soon. The hospital staff told me I might be allowed to enter the next morning since the director is a kind person who might understand. But my father said he couldn’t take me to the hospital the next day. Maybe I can go early on the 3rd. I want to believe that’s true because I haven’t seen him since Christmas, and every day that passes feels like he’s slipping further away. It’s ironic that this is the first journal entry of a new year. It should be optimistic, hopeful—a fresh start. But here I am, with the same pains, the same battles, and just one plea to the universe: for everything at home to get better. s


31/12/24 The last day of the year arrived, but the familiar excitement that used to accompany this moment was nowhere to be found. Everything felt just as heavy, just as broken. Sometimes, I wonder if time truly matters—if flipping a calendar page can fix what feels impossible to mend. At home, there was no party, no lights, no laughter. Just a quiet dinner that felt more like an obligation than a celebration. My thoughts were elsewhere, caught between memories of what’s been lost and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. When it came time for the grapes, I tried to find a wish that truly meant something. I closed my eyes and wished, with all my heart, for everything to get better at home. For the arguments to stop, for health to return, for calm to find its way back to us. I wished that even if the world continues to crumble outside, we might find a sliver of peace here within. That night, there were no fireworks for me—just the distant echoes of others celebrating while I stared at the ceiling, wondering if this new year would be the same as the last. I’m not sure I have the strength for another year like that. But here I am, breathing, trying. Sometimes, it feels like the only thing I truly have is what I create with my hands: the drawings I bring to life on paper, the code I write for my page. These are my escapes, my way of turning sorrow into something tangible. And though it’s not enough, I cling to them as if they were a lifeline keeping me from falling completely. Today marks the end of a year I can only describe as unrelenting chaos. But it’s also the beginning of something new. And though it’s hard to believe, perhaps there’s something different waiting on the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, this year we’ll find a way to feel at home again.


30/12/24The year feels like a weight I can’t let go of, and as I glance at the calendar, the looming arrival of another cycle brings no relief. It’s strange how everything seems to continue its course, indifferent to the turmoil within. The Christmas lights still shine in the streets, but instead of warmth, I feel emptiness. Each flicker seems to mock the joy I’m supposed to feel during this season, but which is glaringly absent. Today has been one of those days where time feels meaningless. The hours pass in a constant murmur, and though I keep myself busy, it feels like I leave no trace behind. I want to believe there’s more—that the next year will bring answers or at least some relief. But right now, that hope is as fragile as a bubble, one I know could burst at any moment. And yet, here I am, breathing, writing, existing. Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe that’s all I can give this day.


29/12/24 The air feels heavy, as if even the world knows something is missing. It’s strange how days can pass with such monotony yet leave behind a void so profound. I’m here, but not really. It’s as if a part of me got lost somewhere I can never return to. Sometimes I think I’m made of scraps: poorly sewn memories, shattered hopes, and a melancholy that never fully fades. I try to fill the emptiness with anything I can find, but nothing fits. Every forced smile, every word I speak feels like an echo in an empty room. It’s odd how you can be surrounded by people and still feel so utterly alone. "Life goes on," they say, but to where? Everything feels like an endless cycle of broken promises and gray days. I wonder if there will ever be more than this—if the weight on my chest will fade, or if I’ll learn to carry it without it hurting so much. In the meantime, here I am, writing as if words could save me, as if seeing them on the page might help me understand myself a little better. But in the end, they’re just letters—just as empty as I am.


28/12/24 There are nights when silence is deafening, and loneliness becomes so tangible I can almost touch it. Tonight is one of those nights. I don’t know what hurts more—the void left by everything that never was, or the weight of the things that were and are now gone. Time moves forward with an indifferent cruelty, as if nothing matters. I pause, trying to remember what calm feels like, but all I find are broken fragments of moments that no longer exist. There’s a sadness that wraps around me, one that doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream—just lingers, constant, like a shadow. Sometimes I think life is a vast book filled with blank pages. Every day, I try to write something, but the words vanish before I can read them. There’s no plot, no purpose—just an endless void that seems to mock my attempts to find meaning. I want to believe this will change one day, that a different dawn will come. But every flicker of hope feels like lying to myself. And yet, I keep writing, because maybe—just maybe—these words will keep me from fading completely.


27/12/24Sometimes I wonder what would happen if everything simply ended. If this weight on my chest disappeared, if this shadow following me faded away. The idea doesn’t scare me as much as it should; instead, it holds a strange kind of comfort, as if the end might be the only form of rest I have left. I don’t want to keep pretending I’m okay. Every day I feel like I’m losing myself more, that there’s nothing here for me, nothing worth it. Life feels like a cruel joke, an endless cycle of pain disguised as hope, of promises that are never fulfilled. There are moments when I stare into the void and think that maybe that’s where I belong. That maybe giving up would be easier than continuing down this path that leads nowhere. And yet, something in me is still here, caught between the desire to disappear and the inability to leave it all behind. I don’t know how much longer I can carry this, or how much longer I can keep pretending there’s something waiting at the end of the tunnel. But for now, I just write, because these words are all I have left, the only thing keeping me from falling completely.


26/12/24The weight of existence feels almost tangible, as though every breath is a burden I never asked to bear. I drown in this tide of dark thoughts, caught between a past that aches and a future that never seems to arrive. There’s no escape, no pause; only this endless cycle of emotions twisting inside me, slowly consuming me from within. Sometimes, I close my eyes and try to imagine a place where all of this fades away. A place where the pain can’t reach me, where the scars aren’t a constant reminder of my inability to be something more, something better. But even in my imagination, everything feels hollow, as flavorless as the life I live each day. People talk about hope as if it’s something innate, something you just have. But I can’t remember the last time I felt anything close to it. It’s like searching for a star in a cloudy sky—knowing it’s there but unable to see it. And with each passing day, I wonder if that star was ever meant for me. I’m tired. Not of the world, not of the people, but of myself. Tired of this constant noise in my head, of this never-ending battle against something I can’t even define. I want to rest, but even that feels like a luxury I don’t deserve. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Life goes on, indifferent, while I quietly fall apart. And no one notices. Or perhaps, they just don’t want to.


25/12/24 Christmas arrived as always, wrapped in lights and songs trying to fill the air with something I didn’t feel. It was as if the world were encased in a warm bubble, but I was outside it, watching from a distance. The streets filled with decorations, houses lit up, but everything felt so empty to me. The dinner tasted like nothing, the conversations sounded like white noise, and the laughter was just an echo in a space that felt vast yet suffocating at the same time. I tried to find some meaning, something to connect me with what is supposedly being celebrated, but everything seemed so... superficial. The gifts, the hugs, even the photos—all of it had that cardboard quality. As if the essence of what it should be had faded long ago, leaving only the routine, the soulless ornament. I sat in front of the tree, with its blinking lights, and for a moment I tried to find beauty in its simplicity. But even that felt distant, as if the lights were there for someone else. Christmas passed, leaving only the echo of a day that was no different from any other. Just lights that will soon turn off, wrapping paper that will end up in the trash, and a vague feeling that I should have felt something... but I didn’t.


24/12/24 Christmas Eve slipped away as it always does, vanishing before I could catch it. There was no magic, only a cold that seeped deeper than my skin, filling every corner of the house and every corner of me. There was food, there were exchanged words, but something was missing. Everything was missing. I watched the tree’s blinking lights, each flash a reminder of the years that will never return. Of when things were simpler, when Christmas Eve meant laughter, warm hugs, and the promise that everything would be okay. Now those lights seem to mock me, dancing alone in a room full of silence. Nostalgia hurts more when you know you can’t go back. I spent a while staring out the window, thinking that maybe, if I closed my eyes tightly enough, I could return to those days. But when I opened them, everything was the same: dark, empty, unchanging. And yet, something inside me holds on. Something small, almost imperceptible, whispers that maybe, someday, these nights will feel less cold. Maybe I’ll feel again that Christmas Eve is more than just a date on the calendar. For now, I can only tuck that memory away in the back of my mind, like a broken treasure that still glimmers faintly. The night ended with me in front of the computer, seeking solace in lines of code and the pages of strangers, as always. Building something, even in a digital space, reminds me that I can still create—that some part of me still works, even if the rest is in ruins.


23/12/24 Today, the air felt heavier than usual, as if even the day was tired of existing. I got up without knowing why, without a reason to push my steps, just the habit of moving forward. Sometimes I think that’s all I am: a collection of habits trying to seem human. I don’t know exactly when this feeling of being lost began, but now it seems eternal. As if I’ve fallen into a place I can’t escape, where every attempt to find a way out leads me to a darker alley. It’s absurd, isn’t it? Living like this, with an emptiness so vast it threatens to swallow everything. I cling to small, insignificant things. A fleeting memory, a thought of what could have been. But even those glimpses feel distant, as if they belong to someone else. I don’t know if this is sadness, resignation, or something worse. Maybe it’s simply existing without reason, without destination, without hope. The clock keeps ticking, but I don’t know where it’s taking me. And while the world keeps spinning, I’m just waiting, though I’m not sure for what exactly. Something to wake me, something to pull me out of this endless dream. Or maybe I’m just waiting to disappear with time.


22/12/24 The world keeps turning, but I remain still. I’m trapped in a place where time doesn’t move, where every second weighs like an eternity. There’s no escape, no glorious ending, just this endless abyss pulling me deeper each day. I’ve stopped looking for reasons. There are no answers, only silence. Everything feels hollow, as if life itself has lost its meaning, as if I never had one to begin with. Even the things that once brought me comfort are now unbearable. Every word, every thought, every memory feels like a slow poison, erasing everything I once was. There’s no redemption on this path. There’s no light, not even at the end. Everything is gray, monotonous, and the only sound I hear is the echo of my own voice, reminding me again and again that this will never change. Maybe this is how it all ends—not with a bang, but with a whisper. With the acceptance that nothing matters, that every step is just a delayed inevitability toward oblivion. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.


21/12/24 The day after Christmas always feels strange, as if the world is tired of itself. The lights that shone brightly yesterday now seem dim, and the forced smiles from family gatherings dissolve into an awkward silence. It’s a day when euphoria turns into emotional hangover, and all that remains is an emptiness that doesn’t know how to be filled. I woke up early today—not because I had something to do, but because my mind wouldn’t let me sleep. I sat by the window, watching the sunlight struggle to break through the gray clouds. The view looked the same as always, but something inside me felt broken, as if a part of me had decided not to move forward. I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve lost, about what I never had. Christmas is supposed to feel warm, but all it left was a sense of loneliness heavier than I’d like to admit. Even the good memories, the few I have, feel distant, as if they belong to another life, to someone else. Today there are no gifts, no laughter, no fake hugs. There’s only a day dragging itself slowly, leaving a trail of melancholy in its wake. And here I am, sitting, trying to make sense of it all, even though I know there’s none to be found.