what's the point?

Sometimes I think about how everything I write could disappear. Maybe only a few people will ever see it. Perhaps no one will. What I make could be buried under everything else people scroll through and forget.

And when I think about that, the same question comes up again: what’s the point?

When I was younger, I made music. I wanted to create albums completely on my own because I knew no one else would make it happen for me. Every part of it, the writing, producing, and mixing, came from me. I had saved up for a MacBook Pro, a MIDI keyboard, and the samples programmed into the software. That setup was all I needed at the time.

It felt like enough, even if I didn’t really know what I was doing. I struggled to figure out how to implement new samples and felt embarrassed for not having learned the necessary skills. Sometimes I think that might have been one of the many small things that could have led me toward a more successful future. But back then, all I had was what I knew, just me and the hope that maybe it would amount to something.

It’s easy to say what we could have done, because we can’t change the past. But it’s about what we choose to do with the knowledge we have now. Will I let myself stay held back, or will I keep taking steps forward, even if they’re small?

When I was twenty-two, the question stopped being about music or writing. It became about life itself, about me. I told myself that I could give up on my existence altogether, because none of it mattered anyway. That was the lowest point, when I truly believed I had reached the end of what I could offer.

I didn’t expect time to move forward, but it did. Somehow, I kept going. I’m twenty-eight now. I started my website when I was twenty-seven, back in March of 2025. I can’t even remember exactly why. I only knew it would be nice to have my own space, something I could build from nothing. I’d written on Tumblr before, and when I was ten, I even had a small site through Webs. But those never felt like they were really mine.

When I finally learned how to register a domain and design everything from scratch, it felt like a significant accomplishment. It wasn’t just a hobby. It was proof that I could create something on my own, piece by piece, even if no one saw it. Like raising something from the ground, fragile but alive.

And unlike social media, where sharing my feelings can feel like being a burden or annoying people, my website is different. I can post whatever I want here. If someone wants to read it, it’s there. And if they don’t, they can move on with their life. There’s comfort in that. I’m not asking anyone to stay, I’m just building something that exists in its own corner of the internet.

Owning that space gave me something I had been missing for years, a place to just exist without having to prove my worth.

I’ve spent most of my life in the background, feeling like an NPC while other people hold the spotlight. Over a decade of wondering where I fit, telling myself,

Maybe this life isn’t for me.

It’s easy to stay in that mindset, to sit with the belief that you’ll always be secondary. But I don’t want anyone else to feel that way. We’re all just here, existing, trying to make sense of it. Everyone deserves comfort and peace, with themselves and with the people around them.

My words won’t change the world, but maybe they could change someone’s life. Feeling alone and stuck isn’t unique to me. People have carried their struggles since the beginning of civilization. I don’t want anything I do to come across like I’m superior or exceptional, because I’m not. I just hope that if someone finds light in what I create, all of this was worth it after all.