being alive feels strange sometimes
like i am walking through a story i do not remember writing
pages missing
sentences crossed out by hands that were not mine

some days i wake up heavy
not from sleep
but from the weight of having to begin again
again
and again

i smile like it fits
like i belong here
but most of the time
it feels like pretending
like nodding along to a song i cannot hear

there is a quiet kind of grief in not knowing where you are going
in watching everyone else move like they have a map
while i am just following the cracks in the road
hoping they lead somewhere soft

i am tired
but not the kind that sleep can fix
tired in my bones
in the part of me that used to dream louder
want more
believe deeper

still
i get up
i show up
not because i am strong
but because something in me refuses to go silent

maybe that is enough
maybe that is what survival really looks like
not heroic
not poetic
just continuing
even when the world does not clap for it