Chaotic Mind

I didn't cry at my father's funeral.
Not a twitch in my eye. Not a lump in my throat.
That funeral wasn't for me. It was a dead man's show-strangers calling themselves family, their whispers louder than screams.
They called me heartless. Cold. Broken.
They were right.
I don't deny it.
This has been my reality for a long time.
I survive by routine, telling stories that hold no meaning.
Most days, I don't live. I exist.
For me to feel alive, something beautiful has to be destroyed.
And now, the chaos I locked away-the chaos I buried under years of pretending to be human-it's clawing its way out.
I can't stop thinking. Can't stop remembering. Can't even look in the mirror without wanting to shatter the reflection staring back at me.
This isn't a story about healing.
This is a story about surviving. About dragging my battered self through a life I'd rather not have.
This is about living with the fragments left behind.
The pieces of a childhood I didn't think was broken, but it was.
This is the story of a man who grew up choking in silence, a man who learned to hide his pain until it ate him alive.
A man who now stands holding a sledgehammer, staring at the bruised face in the mirror.
I'm not asking for pity.
I'm just here to tell my story.