Awful Goodnight

There are nights I lie down and try to figure out what phase of life I’m in.

Nothing is falling apart exactly. Nothing feels like it’s beginning either. I’m somewhere in the middle, telling myself I can live here for a while.

I have plans and I know how to say them out loud so they sound like a future. But when the room gets quiet, I can’t tell if I want those things, or if I’ve just learned what I’m supposed to want.

Lately, I catch myself listening to my breathing. Some nights, it feels like the only proof I have that I’m here.
I get up. I reply to people. I make things. I look fine. But there are parts of me I haven’t felt in a long time.

I tell myself to calm down. Maybe everything is moving too fast. Maybe I need to give it more time. Then I remember how much time I’ve already given. I put myself here. I gave this place so much of me that leaving feels like admitting it was all for nothing.

And my life isn’t entirely bad. That’s the part I find hardest to explain. I could stay in this sunless place for years and keep calling it good enough.

I look fine. I’m not. I think the thing that has to end is my habit of calling this living.

Do not go gentle into that good night.