Lately, most of my days feel like that. Suspended. Not quite real, not
quite imagined. Just movement — toward deadlines, toward conversations, toward
yosi - break and another episode of a show I won’t remember. I used to think life
would be this wild river I’d have to learn to swim through. But now it feels
more like a conveyor belt, slow and numbing, carrying me past things I forgot
to want.
I miss wanting.
Not for anything specific. Not for love or escape or clarity — though
those too, maybe. I miss the ache that used to come with being alive. The soft
hunger of dreaming, of reaching for something just out of sight. That quiet
desperation that reminded me I had a heart, even when I didn’t know what
to do with it.
There was a time I’d watch the moon like it was a secret. Like it knew
something about me I hadn’t figured out yet. But I don’t look up much these
days. Maybe because I’m afraid it’ll still be there — unchanging, indifferent —
while I’ve become someone I promised I’d never be: okay with just getting by.
Sometimes I catch myself laughing too quickly, agreeing too easily,
saying "I’m good" when I mean "I don’t know who I am right
now." I wear autopilot like it’s armor. It works. No one really notices
when you’re fading, as long as you smile at the right moments.
But I notice.
I notice when the music doesn’t hit the way it used to. When the old
songs I once clung to feel like postcards from someone else’s memory. I notice
when I talk about the past like I’m already too far gone to return to any
version of who I was. I notice when I scroll for hours, not looking for
anything, just trying not to feel how empty everything is when I stop.
Some nights I want to disappear — not dramatically, just gently. Like
mist at dawn. Like a thought forgotten mid-sentence. Not because I’m sad,
necessarily, but because I don’t know what it means to be fully here anymore.
I’m tired of pretending that this life I’m stitching together — with to-do
lists and online orders and polite laughter — is enough.
I want the real thing again. The raw, unruly, aching thing. The kind of
living that leaves you breathless. I want to miss something deeply. I want to
fail spectacularly. I want to cry on rooftops and feel embarrassed and start
over. I want to feel like everything matters again — even when it doesn’t.
And maybe that’s the first step — admitting it.
Admitting that somewhere in the blur of surviving, I forgot how to feel. And now, piece by piece, I’m trying to remember.
Comments
Post a Comment