Today was a difficult day. I woke up with a massive headache, as if the painful words that fill me, those that no longer have space inside, were trying to come out somehow, at any cost. I felt overwhelmed, as though my body was carrying the full weight of an unsettled mind. I didn't want to go outside—not for anything—but I made the effort, just for the dog.
As we walked, he was on his leash, and seeing him like that made my heart sink. He, who loves to run free and explore without limits, was confined, and I couldn't help but feel guilty about it. Perhaps because, in some way, I see a reflection of myself in him: as if something invisible yet inescapable is holding me back too. It's strange how, sometimes, the emotions we project onto animals say more about us than they do about them.
The streets are filled with Christmas lights. Twinkling lights glimmer in windows, decorated trees appear on every balcony, and even music fills the air—the same melodies, year after year. Today, I noticed the televisions I could glimpse through windows, all synchronized in the same choreography of ads for random products. And the solemnity with which the words were spoken! The voiceover, full of importance, turned ordinary products into promises of something extraordinary. I found myself laughing quietly, unsure if I was laughing at the naivety of it all or at myself for trying to find meaning where I already know there is none.
In a way, these lights and decorations are beautiful. They are a collective attempt to create something special. But I feel disconnected from it all, as if these lights belong to a world I cannot access at this moment.
Still, I can't help but wonder: will I ever feel that genuine joy again, the kind that so many people seem to find naturally this time of year? For now, I can only focus on the simple act of continuing to walk with my dog, a small gesture of persistence.