Alive

Alive. But what is the point
When you seem to be running in circles,
Chasing yourself in endless loops.

Alive, but why, when life seems to conspire against you?
Alive, why, when you gaze outside but never in?
Alive, why, when you stand alone by your window?

Why is your window so different from others’?
Is that why you’re alone?
Looking in, looking out, I see a stark contrast—

My window unshuttered, while theirs are locked tight.
I’ve been standing here for what feels like 200 years,
And my window remains untouched, unfulfilled.

Why me? Did I descend from galaxies
Just to falter in life?
Why does my key refuse to turn?

I question existence day and night,
It’s a burden, a headache,
As life and its end creep closer.

Yet I push through each day, each month,
I refuse to quit, though it’s not easy.
Alive, but why? What’s the point?

My window remains locked,
Bringing forth insecurities,
Anger, hate, and resentment—

Not towards life, but my own journey.
I wake up just to stare at the wall,
Lost in my thoughts, day and night.

As a firstborn, I’m meant to lead and achieve,
Failure is not an option, or so I was taught.

But here I am, merely a spectator,
Clapping at graduations,
My applause now feels hollow, immune.

Looking around, I see the questions in parents’ eyes,
“When will it be your turn?”
I wish I knew,
So I could give them something to discuss,
Something to be proud of.
I woke up and showered this morning,
Being struggling for a decade,
And I’m alive.

Maybe, just maybe,
My window has finally opened a sliver of possibility.