Be Careful Who You Tell Your Dreams To

I said I was “pretty definite” about not wanting to die, but I lied. I do not think that is something I can be definite about—not usually and certainly not these days. I cannot picture any part of the future. I cannot picture myself. This “future,” this life, supposedly “mine,” is a blank; I have run out of ink with which to write on it. I am not definite about walking forward into the void. 

But I am definite about time. There are things that I know. I know that time passes whether I think I can live or not, and that these currents take me places I never thought I would go. I know that the Earth, the sun, the dance of our days—all these things are roughly circular, and we are always and never coming home. I know that the day I decided I would not kill myself lies glinting on the top of the handful of other days around which I cup my hands and close my fingers tight, despite the agony and the silence that I keep. When I arrive at work still searching for a single good thing in myself and unable to find even one, the children still run to meet me, calling out my name. I have not lost everything—only the things I thought I couldn’t afford to lose. I can’t go back, I’m afraid to move forward, but listen. My heart’s still beating.

I guess you can say I’m not definite about wanting to live. I’m only definite about living.