I wish I never saw it

I wish I never saw it.

That’s the truth no one writes about.

It was never meant to be a story.

A piece, a personal essay, a post.

I simply stopped.

I stopped.

That’s where it began.

I stopped working.
I stopped running.
I stopped being distracted.

And my body didn’t know what to do with that.

It took time—
for my brain to understand
that I wasn’t a prisoner anymore.

And even when it did…
something else broke.

The nights.

Long, awake, heavy nights.

Trying to understand
what went wrong.

Why I felt so angry.

Not at the world.

At myself.

Because I chose it.

I stepped out.
I took the gamble.

And what I thought was clarity…

was something else.

It felt like deception.

Like every dream, every promise, every wish—
shattering at once.

Like a million crystal cups
falling on concrete.

I still hear it.
I still see it.

Some nights… I still cry.

But I don’t spiral anymore.

I don’t search for more answers.

Because I learned something the hard way:

Knowing more
doesn’t always help you live better.

So I stopped.

I let things be.
I let things go.
I let time take me.

And life kept moving.

Not forward.

Just… on.

Like the hands of a clock stuck at noon.

And no one tells you that part.

That you don’t just lose a life you understood—

You lose the version of you
that knew how to exist inside a day.
Inside a life that felt like yours.

The one who woke up
without negotiating with the morning.

The one who moved
without thinking about every step.

The one who didn’t feel watched
by her own reflection.

I didn’t just step out of a life.

I stepped out of myself.

And now—

everything feels heavier.

Not just my thoughts.

My body.
My presence.

The way I enter a room.
The way I avoid entering one at all.

Because being seen now
feels different.

Feels exposed.

Feels like I have to explain
a version of me I don’t even understand.
A version of me I don’t know how to carry.

So I stay here.

In this quiet.

In this “dream.”

Where everything is beautiful.

And nothing feels like mine.

I’m here now.

In what looks like a dream.

A quiet place.
A beautiful view.
The sound of birds, geese, water.

My “precious” things around me.
Books. Plates. Stones.

Things that make me smile
when I look at them.

I look at this life—

and I know
I should be grateful.

And maybe I am.

In pieces.
In moments.

In the way the light hits the window
or the way the birds sound in the morning.

But gratitude doesn’t fix it.

It doesn’t replace what was lost.

It doesn’t give me back
the part of me that knew how to live without thinking.

And that’s the part I miss.

Not the noise.
Not the money.

The version of me
that didn’t question everything.
That didn’t have the time to question anything.

The one who could exist
without trying to understand it all.

Because once you see too much—

you don’t just lose illusions.

You lose simplicity.

And simplicity…

is harder to rebuild
than anything else.

And still—

I would trade it.

All of it.

To go back.

To the noise.
To the routine.
To the paycheck.

To being distracted by the problems of others.

Because there was dignity there.

There was structure.

There was something to hold on to.

Now—

I have silence.

And time, lots of time.

And thoughts that don’t always let me rest.

This was a gamble.

And I lost what I was living for.

So no—

I’m not here to tell you
that awareness will save you.

Or that leaving will set you free.

Some things…
are easier to carry
when you don’t see them clearly.

I saw them.
And now I have to live with it.