Existential Errands

Looking at a calendar still flipped to last month and realizing time moves whether I acknowledge it or not, which feels less like freedom and more like abandonment.

Hearing the house settle at night and thinking about how even buildings adjust to pressure, while I’m still resisting mine.

Opening the freezer and feeling the cold spill out, thinking about how containment looks a lot like preservation from the outside.

Watching dust settle on a shelf and thinking about how neglect isn’t dramatic—it’s just quiet accumulation until something looks abandoned.

Turning a doorknob and thinking about how every door already knows what it’s supposed to lead to, while I still feel like I’m opening the wrong things by accident.

Seeing the vacuum cord tangled again and thinking about how I keep tripping over the same problems because I never fully wind them up and put them away.

Standing at the sink, hands in soapy water, thinking about how my plants know exactly what to do with light and I still don’t know what to do with my days.

Watching the ceiling fan turn in slow, lazy circles and thinking about how it never asks why it keeps going, never questions whether it deserves motion, never needs reassurance to stay in the air.

Setting an alarm I already know I’ll snooze, appreciating the optimism it takes to believe tomorrow’s version of me will be more cooperative.

Reheating food I wasn’t hungry for when I made it and still not wanting it now, but eating anyway because it feels wrong to waste something that tried.

Opening a cabinet and having something fall out onto my foot, immediately apologizing to no one, then stopping and wondering why my first instinct is always to take blame, even from furniture.

Watching the coffee maker drip one cup at a time, feeling oddly comforted by the predictability, and then remembering most of my anxiety comes from never knowing when I’m supposed to be “done.”

Turning a pillow over to the cool side and feeling immediate relief, then resenting how easily comfort can exist in small ways while the bigger things remain untouched.

Listening to the washing machine thump unevenly and not fixing the load because it still technically works, realizing how low my standards have gotten for what counts as “okay.”

Opening a drawer to grab scissors and seeing four pairs, none of which cut properly, and thinking about how many versions of me exist solely to appear functional.

Replacing the trash bag and noticing how light it feels compared to how long I avoided doing it, then wondering how many things in my life are like that—heavy in anticipation, negligible once it’s over.

Pulling weeds again days later and realizing the ground never learns, it just waits, the same way I do—patiently, stubbornly, endlessly wrong about things getting easier.