It seems a shadow of misfortune follows me. I've come to expect it: a fleeting moment of light is always chased away by a familiar storm, pulling me back under with brutal force.

What truly unnerves me is the silence within. The emotional echo of these disasters has faded to nothing. I am a dry well—events that should summon a flood of tears now barely register. Is this resilience, or is it erosion? My psyche, to save itself, seems to have severed the wires, leaving me feeling like an spectator in my own tragicomedy, muttering, 'This can't be real.'

I observe my life as through a thick, silent pane of glass. The impact is muted, the meaning distant. I am a curious stranger to my own apathy, asking, 'What happens when you simply have nothing left to feel?'

Is this emptiness making me stronger, or is it the void before the collapse? I built these walls stone by stone for protection, but now they encircle me. They keep the world's anguish out. The question is no longer about weathering the storm, but whether I am fortified within a sanctuary, or entombed within a cell of my own making.