Of Ghosts and Rain

Thirty-one arrived without architecture. My face hasn’t changed, still forget meals, and indulge in the laundry warmth. Some afternoons still stretch thin as paper. Others dissolve before the second coffee. I don’t count time anymore. Most days aren’t good. They’re just less loud.

I started drinking water again, slowly. Not in the dramatic way I imagined self-care would look like, more like a collection of habits that feels less theatre.

There was a time I used to write each day like a photograph, trying to make it carry something heavier than it had to. I thought maybe if I caught each second, it would be worth more. And there was a time I worshipped language, shaped it into meaning, whether or not it wanted to hold anything.

Today, somebody asked what I was working on. I said something vague about reflection. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the answer either. I haven’t written anything true in a while. Not because I’ve run out of things to say, but because not all of it needs to be framed.

I’ve tasted every illusion and spat them out like bitter wine. The story I once told about myself, the one that made the chaos sound romantic, I don’t miss it. I’ve stopped listening for ghosts.

Growth, if it’s happening, moves two degrees slower than I can measure. People talk about it like it’s forward. But for me it’s been an undoing, not a becoming, a slow erosion of identities that never quite belonged to begin with. Every version of me, half-finished. None of them wrong, just undecided. I may never belong to anything. Not ever, not fully.

The air smells like a trace of rain from our childhood home’s balcony. If I stand still enough, I feel like I’ve already lived in this exact moment. And isn't it bizarre? That life is a series of repetitive events. Floating, nearly drowned, and oddly wished to again.

Tonight, time stretches wide like an ocean on a moonless night. I can’t tell if I’ve arrived somewhere or just stopped measuring the distance.

I still don’t know what purpose means, the difference now is I don’t panic either way. And it’s a strange freedom.