Anatomy

Anatomy of Time

Birthdays always felt strange to me.

Every year, people seem to expect you to feel excited, like somehow the world has shifted just a little bit in your favor because it's marked the passing of another year of your life.

People love to measure time in these little milestones, these candles and balloons, singing songs that always feel forced and out of tune. But lately, the idea of a "next year" has felt hazier, like a dream that slips through your fingers the moment you wake up. My birthday is soon, but I'm not sure I'll be here to see it.

I don't know how to explain it, exactly. It's not that I've got a specific date in mind or some plan that I've laid out in secret. It's more like... this quiet certainty that I just won't be around by then. I've started to feel like I've overstayed my welcome in my own life, like the days just keep stretching out in front of me with no real purpose, and I'm growing more and more exhausted trying to keep up with them. Time drags on, pulling me with it, and I don't see a version of myself that exists after this.

There's this numbness that has settled into me, a kind of bone-deep weariness that no amount of rest can seem to shake. People tell you it gets better, that you'll find a way to move forward, that there are more birthdays to come and that you'll be grateful for them one day. But I've tried to imagine it, that "one day" they talk about. I've tried to picture myself older, wiser, moving past all of this, finally happy and fulfilled. And no matter how hard I try, I just... can't see it. I don't see myself standing there, years from now, blowing out another set of candles.

I know how people will respond if I tell them this, so I don't. They'd brush it off as some "phase," maybe something that'll pass like a bad mood. Or worse, they'll panic, they'll overreact, and I'll end up feeling even more alone. So instead, I play along. I make the obligatory plans, pretend to look forward to the party my family will likely throw, even if it's just a small dinner with my parents. I've done it every year; it's easy to go through the motions. Smile when they sing, thank everyone for the gifts I don't feel I deserve, blow out the candles and make a wish. I don't even know what to wish for anymore.

Maybe that's what makes it so hard to imagine anything beyond this birthday. I don't know what I'd want even if I got more time. I don't know what I'd change, or what I'd fight for. When I look at the days stretching beyond this one, I don't see opportunities or dreams waiting to come true. I see the same ache, the same hollow feeling that I've been carrying for so long, weighing me down like an anchor tied around my heart. It's hard to keep swimming when it feels like you're drowning, day after day.

In some strange way, I feel at peace with it. Like maybe I've done my part, played my role in this endless game of life, and it's okay to let go. I don't feel a sense of panic or desperation when I think about it. Just a kind of quiet acceptance, like the knowledge that you're at the end of a book and there aren't any pages left to turn. Maybe that's what this birthday feels like—the last chapter, the final moment before the story closes.

And part of me almost wishes that someone could see it, the part of me that's been slowly fading away all this time. It would be a relief, I think, to have someone else notice, to understand that I don't see a future beyond this year. I wish someone would stop the celebration, look me in the eye, and tell me it's okay to feel this way—that they understand why I don't want another year, another day, of carrying this weight.

But no one ever does.