Enough
I slip between indifference and concentrated effort.
There’s a low-level hum—
a feeling that I need to begin,
and that I’m already behind.
Time doesn’t rush,
but it doesn’t wait either.
Start: a choice to act.
Behind: no outcome yet.
Time: just the limit.
I struggle with being goal-oriented.
I also struggle to care.
Truth, desire, even wanting—
they shift depending on the day.
On nothing at all.
And if I can choose what matters,
why assign meaning at all?
I want more solitude.
I want less performance.
Work asks too much,
even when I’m pretending to give.
I don’t want to be good.
I’ve never trusted ambition.
It feels like someone else’s idea
of what should matter.
Lately, I’ve been drawn to Stoicism.
I used to call myself a happy nihilist.
Now I just think:
I’m here.
The choices are here.
I can write or sleep.
I can leave or stay.
I can respond or disappear.
There’s something solid in that.
And—
it’s been five months without an episode.
The medication helps.
My body holds up.
I walk.
I read.
I cook.
I see friends.
I’m learning about plants.
I make things
I don’t need to explain.
My feelings are less jagged.
I can watch them move.
I don’t need anything.
I’m not waiting for more.
This is enough.