𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐞𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐞𝐫.)

Sometimes I’m not sad. I’m not broken. I’m not falling apart.

I’m just here.

Thinking, 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵. 

I think about the fact that we only get one life,

and that it’s 𝗮𝗯𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗱𝗹𝘆 short for everything it contains.

About how no one really knows what they’re doing,

even when they speak with certainty.

We move forward guided by intuition, fear, trial and error,

believing we understand—

until something proves we don’t.

And still, we have to keep going.

And going.

And going.

Because the clock keeps moving.

It ticks.

It marks time.

And it never stops.

I have anxiety about death.

Not always as fear, but as presence.

Like it’s sitting in the same room as me, quietly watching.

Dripping into my thoughts,

slowly coloring them,

guiding them.

A lot of this way of thinking is shaped by a musical.

A very famous one.

Hamilton.

“𝐼 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ, 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑦. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛'𝑠 𝑖𝑡 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒? 𝐼𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑒𝑝? 𝑆𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑎ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑒? 

𝐼𝑓 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛', 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑟𝑢𝑛, 𝑜𝑟 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒? 𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑑𝑦? 

𝑺𝒆𝒆 𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰'𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝟐𝟗. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑰 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎, 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚. 𝑨𝒔𝒌 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒘𝒉𝒚 𝒘𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏' 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒌. 

𝑾𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒔 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚”

Living as if time could run out at any moment.

As if I had to squeeze it before it escaped.

I think we live fast because we feel like we have to.

Because we know not everyone makes it to the end.

Because some lives stop halfway through the race.

I think about the people whose lives ended suddenly,

unfairly,

without goodbye.

About how they’re gone,

and the world kept going.

That gives me anxiety.

It hurts knowing that some people give their only life

trying to change something,

while others look the other way.

It hurts knowing this is our only chance,

and it can disappear without warning.

And still, I think life is too short

to hate someone forever.

Too short to carry inherited resentment.

Too short to exclude.

Too short to lose moments because of pride or fear.

Too short to say little.

Too short to love quietly.

Life feels too short to live in one place.

To do only one thing.

To say too few words.

Sometimes I feel like I have to be doing something all the time.

Creating.

Moving.

Deciding.

Advancing.

𝗔𝘀 𝗶𝗳 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀. 

As if resting meant wasting existence.

But I’m learning something too:

Life is not an upward line.

It’s a breath.

Inhale → you do.

Exhale → you stop.

If you never stop,

you drown.

I don’t want to cure a disease.

I don’t want to change the course of history.

I don’t need to be extraordinary.

But I do want to do something with my existence.

Something with every second I’m given.

And maybe that doesn’t mean running faster,

but filling life with small acts that let me inhabit it.

Reading a book.

Writing without editing my feelings.

Finishing a drawing.

Making an imperfect animation.

Playing.

Learning something new.

Moving.

Feeling.

Not wasting life

doesn’t mean filling it with achievements.

It means being present.

Breathing.

Doing.

Stopping.

And starting again.

And then the fear appears.

The fear of not having lived enough.

Not having seen enough.

Not having done enough.

Not having said enough.

Not having loved enough.

Not having been enough.

“𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝐼𝑚 𝑟𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒'𝑠 𝑢𝑝”

I feel chased by time.

By legacy.

“𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑙𝑙 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑒? 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑢𝑙𝑘𝑒𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑐𝑦”

And then fear gets me. Time gets me. 

“𝐿𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑐𝑦. 𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑐𝑦? 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑒"

Small seeds.

Moments.

Words.

Gestures.

Imperfect creations.

Maybe writing this is already a seed.

Maybe feeling this deeply is one too.

“𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑢𝑝, ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ? ”

Maybe “enough”

doesn’t mean having done more,

but having truly been here.

It's intensity, it's hunger, it's necessity, it's urgency.

“𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆...”

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

I apologize for returning to Hamilton again and again.

There are things I can't say any other way.

And this music, these words,

have been the closest place I've found

to give body to what I think and feel.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ's ᴀʟʟ ꜰᴏʀ ɴᴏᴡ - sᴛᴀʏ sʜɪɴʏ٭