Time,
you old thief.
You never kicked my door down.
You never robbed me at gunpoint.
You just kept taking little things.
A little excitement here.
A little purpose there.
A little dream from the shelf.
A little fire from the heart.
Until one day I woke up
and realized I wasn’t burning anymore.
I was only smoking.
Still moving.
Still breathing.
Still showing up.
But somewhere inside,
the flame had become an ember.
And nobody noticed.
Because men are taught
how to carry mountains
without making a sound.
We learn early
that sadness is acceptable
as long as it is productive.
Depression is acceptable
as long as we still go to work.
Pain is acceptable
as long as we still pay the bills.
Exhaustion is acceptable
as long as we keep saying,
“I’m good.”
So I became a master of that phrase.
“I’m good.”
The greatest lie
I ever learned to tell.
Not because I wanted to deceive anyone.
But because after a while,
I stopped knowing how to explain
what was happening inside me.
How do you explain
that your body got out of bed
but your spirit stayed behind?
How do you explain
that you’re not crying
because you’ve become too tired
to produce tears?
How do you explain
that every day feels exactly the same,
but somehow heavier?
Time.
The hours keep moving.
The clock keeps ticking.
The calendar keeps changing.
Yet somehow
I feel stuck.
Like I’m standing in the middle of a river
watching everyone else’s life move downstream.
People ask,
“What do you want to do?”
And I smile.
Because the truth is,
I don’t know anymore.
I used to have answers.
Used to have plans.
Used to have visions so vivid
I could see them when I closed my eyes.
Now?
Now I spend more time
trying to remember who I used to be
than becoming who I wanted to become.
And that’s a terrifying thing.
To look in the mirror
and recognize your face
but not your purpose.
To remember your responsibilities
but forget your dreams.
To know exactly who depends on you
while having no idea
what you’re supposed to become.
Some days
I feel like a ghost
haunting my own life.
Showing up.
Smiling.
Nodding.
Laughing when laughter is expected.
Playing my role so well
that nobody suspects
the actor is exhausted.
Nobody sees the silence
that waits for me after midnight.
Nobody hears the conversations
I have with the darkness.
The questions.
The doubts.
The endless wondering.
Was this it?
Is this all there is?
Work.
Sleep.
Bills.
Repeat.
Did I miss my purpose somewhere?
Did it pass me by while I was busy surviving?
Or is purpose just another story
we tell ourselves
to make the waiting easier?
Time doesn’t answer.
It never does.
The clock just keeps ticking
like a judge refusing to explain the sentence.
And every second feels like a reminder
that life is moving
whether I know where I’m going or not.
The hardest part isn’t being lost.
The hardest part
is pretending you’re not.
