And I am so exhausted by this constant orbit around potential. This slow bleeding of meaning. A daily flirtation with who I am not, what I don’t have, and what I haven’t done. Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what would look impressive.

“ Oh, to wake up grateful for the pulse in my neck; to meet the mirror without dread.

I need to be enough—for myself . “

Our skin aches for mornings that begin with the light of dawn and not that of a screen. Before our feet touch the earth, our eyes have already wandered into someone else’s world. We didn’t notice when we stopped living and began watching others. We’ve become spectators of everyone and participants in nothing of our own.

This isn’t freedom. It’s erosion. This is the slow disintegration of self beneath the illusion that we can be anything, everything, all at once.

We do not just suffer from an abundance of options, we suffer from a lack of commitment.

I am a thousand almosts, held together by hesitation; a gallery of repainted selves.