happy birthday to me

Today is my birthday. I'm spending it in a hospital bed, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the steady beeping of machines that remind me my body’s not doing so great. I’m not sure what’s wrong exactly—just the usual storm of symptoms no one can name with certainty.

I should feel something today. Excitement? Gratitude? Maybe even hope? But I don’t. I just feel tired. And more than anything, I feel embarrassed that I still care. I still notice this day, even if I hate it.

There's this quote from Kierkegaard that hits differently today: “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” That’s what birthdays do, don’t they? They force you to look back and pretend it means something. But looking back hurts. Looking forward feels like a lie.

When I was a kid, I thought birthdays would always mean progress. Growth. Gifts. Cake. The warm kind of attention. Now they just mark time passing without much changing, like scratching tallies on a prison wall. The hospital makes that especially obvious. It’s not just another year older—it’s another year still here, still broken, still not okay.

There’s no party today. No candles. Just tests, maybe a scan, and the strange detachment of doctors who don’t know how to explain what’s wrong. Maybe they never will.

Still, I can’t help thinking of Marcus Aurelius, writing in his journal: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” It’s a sobering thought, but also kind of freeing. If I’m here—still breathing, still thinking—I guess there’s something left to do. Even if it’s just surviving the day.

So yeah. It’s my birthday. I’m spending it in a hospital. No big revelations. No speeches about resilience. Just this: I’m still here. And maybe, for now, that has to be enough.

maybe my dad will bring me some tonkatsu later.