My dear diary,

Today is May 28, 2025. I couldn’t get out of bed this morning.

Not because I’m lazy. But because I couldn’t see the point.

I had no money. Not even enough for a bun.

And the world… the world has billions for rockets.

I’m a photographer. I create. I feel. I pour my soul into my work.

But it seems this world has no budget for people like me.

Sometimes I wonder — maybe I need to sell my soul to survive.

But to whom?

I’m not angry.

I just sit here, looking out the window, thinking:

Why is my heart — my camera, my story — worth less

than a bolt in a machine made to destroy a city in one hit?

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The Day I Sold My Dream