world of the Day

There are things I want to write about, but I’m also holding back more than usual these days. Maybe it’s just a part of getting older — the understanding that you don’t have to say everything out loud to be honest. Some secrets aren’t meant to be hidden out of shame, just out of survival. And right now, I’m quietly surviving one of those seasons.

I’m saving up to move out. I’ve almost reached the amount I need for a new apartment, but it’s going to take one more month. Just one more. I keep telling myself that over and over. One more month of being cautious, frugal, careful. It’s exhausting, but necessary. I’ve tightened my budget so much that even little treats feel like luxuries now. But I keep reminding myself: if I can get through this, I can get through the next chapter too.

Medical coding is my next big plan. If I can just pass through the course and get certified, it could give me the kind of quiet, behind-the-scenes job that suits me — stable, focused, a little removed from the chaos. Entering codes from home, keeping to myself, earning decently. It almost sounds peaceful. Almost.

I just finished rewatching FernGully — and, surprisingly, I ended up crying. There’s this moment when the elder fairy fades away, and something about it hit me hard. Maybe because I feel like I’m fading in some ways too, just trying to stay intact. Life feels boring, static, like I’m stuck in a loop. But even when I don't feel like admitting it, writing helps me confront these truths.

That’s why I’m putting it down here. I need a space where I can be honest. If I don’t write it out, it stays bottled inside me, and I can feel it start to leak out into other areas of my life. Pretending is tiring. But this page? This page is where I’m real.

Lately, I’ve been getting more subscribers on Medium, which is nice. But I’m torn on how to use it. Medium feels more polished — like I have to offer something of value in a traditional sense: tips, essays, thought-out pieces. Here on Vocal, it’s more like keeping a journal. Just showing up and letting the words spill out.

My laptop has been acting up, which adds another layer of stress. It can barely handle streaming now. My internet’s not strong, and my system’s old. I used to be on Twitch, actively part of the community. Now I’m more of a silent viewer, on the sidelines. I guess that’s life — one day you’re buzzing, the next you’re buffering. It's funny, in a slightly tragic kind of way.

Still, writing gives me something that feels like purpose. When I’m high, my thoughts float so far that I can lose track of what’s real. Writing brings me back. It’s like tying a string to myself so I don’t drift too far. Until I start working again, it’s my anchor. My outlet.

Funny how it all circles back to work. As if life revolves around it. Maybe it does. Maybe we all just need to keep the wheel turning — contribute something, stay busy, stay afloat. Work becomes the rhythm we move to. And if that’s true, I just want a rhythm that feels like mine.

On top of everything, my allergies are flaring up. My eye is swollen, and I’ve been sneezing constantly. Maybe it’s hay fever? I don’t remember ever having it this bad. As a kid, my allergies would go straight to my ears. Now it seems to be targeting my face. Could be the constant use of headphones. Could just be adulthood.

I’ve got enough saved up that I could do something fun. A small trip. A fancy dinner. But I’m holding back. Trying to be “good.” Delaying gratification like I’m supposed to. One more month. That’s the mantra.

I started using a new to-do list — just a single page per day. I originally made it for chores and phone calls, simple household stuff. But lately it’s turned into more: online tasks, notes, half-formed ideas. The page is evolving, like I am.

Some days I check everything off. Other days, there are Xs or things I bump to tomorrow. But at least it’s something. Something I control. Something I can look at and say, I did this today. That’s enough, for now.

Maybe that’s how I’ll keep going — one more task, one more list, one more page.