Through the Emptiness

A note for the book 404: Reality Not Found

They say writing is easy. No, it isn’t.

Sometimes it comes naturally… but only when I’m sad and need to throw out the excess shit I’ve been holding inside for weeks, months, years. Everything I’ve been suppressing spills onto the page. It’s the only way I can understand what I really feel, because otherwise, I suffocate in this world where nothing seems truly mine.

Freelancing looks good from the outside – freelancing my way, sounds proud. But inside, it’s an endless struggle. Every day is planning the next steps, searching for income sources, balancing between what I have to do and what I actually want. It’s more exhausting than any physical work. Every evening, every night, is a test of patience and endurance. And sometimes, I fail.

Drinking? Sometimes it helps. Numbs the mind, lets me escape the thoughts that circle in my head like angry dogs. But it’s only temporary relief.

Drugs? I’ve tried – you can’t write after them. Maybe you could, but no one high thinks about writing. The mind drifts somewhere else, and I drift along with it. I used to think I could control everything, that I knew when to stop and avoid going all the way down. But life quickly taught me that it doesn’t always work that way.

Returning to drugs was like falling into a black hole. I never really wanted to – I promised myself hundreds of times that it was over, that I could do it on my own terms. And then a moment of weakness, stress, loneliness, fear – and I gave in again. Every relapse left a mark. Every day after drugs was empty, full of shame and the feeling that I’d lost myself. It was worse than the darkest nights spent alone. I felt like a machine repeating the same mistake over and over, as if there were no escape, as if everything I tried was doomed to fail.

Sometimes, in those moments, I thought I’d never get out of that spiral. That I’d never be strong enough to stop running into substances and find meaning in the daily chaos. Every day was a fight, not just for money, not just for survival, but for my own sense of worth. Because when you look in the mirror and see someone who promised themselves a better life, and still fails every day, it’s hard to keep any hope alive.

And yet… there were moments of light. Small flashes that reminded me that change was possible. People who still believed in me, conversations that made me feel I wasn’t alone. And most of all, Daniela. The thought of her was like an anchor I held onto in my darkest hours. For her, I tried to fight, even when I had already lost faith in myself.

When I finally flew to Italy, I felt a relief I had never known. Seeing Daniela, her smile, her presence – it was like stepping out of a dark tunnel into full light. Finally, I could breathe. Finally, I felt that I could be myself, without pretending, without burying everything inside. Every fall, every failure, every relapse – it had all led me here, to this moment, where I could feel peace.

Writing is still my way to breathe. In moments when everything feels heavy and empty, when the world is loud around me, and I feel like part of a machine someone forgot to turn off – paper and words let me survive. But now, looking at myself here in Italy, with Daniela, I know there is hope. That despite the falls, it’s possible to rise. That despite mistakes, it’s possible to find meaning, to find peace.

Every line I write reflects my loneliness, my fears, my hopes. But now, when I think of the future, I think that I can not only survive but truly live. Maybe one day someone will read this and feel the same – and then they’ll know they are not alone. And if not… it still helps me survive another day.

Because in the end, after dark hours and storms in my head, there is a place where I can be myself. A place where I can finally breathe.