I never saw myself living past eighteen.
Never saw a future that stretched longer than the space
between breaths, between thoughts of leaving.
Planned my funeral before I ever planned a major,
wrote eulogies instead of essays,
imagined candlelight instead of college halls.
Death was near.
Always.
Close enough to touch, close enough to keep me
from wanting anything real.
I did not dream. Did not reach. Did not care.
Why would I?
What is the point of wanting when wanting
means making peace with living?
Basketball was something,
until it was not.
It held me,
until it did not.
Now, it is just a word,
a memory that does not move me,
a thing that used to mean everything,
but now means nothing.
Not important.
Not anymore.
People ask about my future,
about what I want to do, who I want to be,
and I answer cluelessly,
because I was never meant to answer.
I was never meant to be here.
Making life minor was major to me.
Now I am here,
alive, breathing, existing,
and it should be enough.
It should be enough.
But every day,
every single day,
I want to not be.
Now, I am faced with something I never expected-
a future.
A future that demands choices,
demands wanting,
demands a self I never built.
And I am more lost than ever.
I do not know what I want.
I do not know how to want.
I do not know if I can.
I just want to be alive.
or
I never planned to be here.
Never thought past eighteen.
Never saw a need.
Why plan for a life
I never meant to live?
I knew how I'd go.
Had a list,
a blueprint,
a funeral mapped out in my head
before I ever thought about a major.
Life was a countdown,
not a thing to build.
I kept it simple.
No dreams, no futures, no burdens.
Desire was weight,
so I threw it off.
Kept nothing I couldn't drop
when death finally tapped my shoulder.
Basketball was the one thing.
The only thing.
The closest thing to wanting.
Until it wasn't.
Now it's just a ball,
just a game,
just a noise I don't care to hear.
Not important.
Not anymore.
People ask me,
"What do you want to do?"
"What's your plan?"
"What's your major?"
I don't have answers for questions
I was never supposed to hear.
Never thought I'd need them.
Never thought I'd make it to the asking.
Making life minor was my major.
Now I am here,
standing in a future I never asked for,
staring at possibilities that don't feel like mine.
I should be grateful.
Satisfied.
Alive.
But every day,
every single fucking day,
I want to not be.
And yet, I wake up.
And yet, I breathe.
And yet, I move forward,
with nothing but this empty space
where a plan should be,
where a want should be,
where something should be.
But there is nothing.
And I don't know if I will ever find it.
