not sure

What was life? Was it completing days one after another? Was it waking up in the morning, sleeping at night, and filling the time in between? Or was it waiting, believing that one day it would surely get better?

I used to believe that life had a purpose. I remember a time when I could state it in clear sentences. I could say, “This is the purpose of my life.” Now, those sentences are still in my mind, but I can no longer fill them with meaning.

Things I thought I knew diminished over time. Life quietly took back what I knew. Not through great ruptures, but slowly. Today, I am not sure what I truly know. I doubt not only the answers, but myself as well.

At some point, the idea of purpose gave way to habits. Things that had to be done, deadlines to meet, opportunities not to be missed. Life ceased to be something lived; it turned into something maintained, something managed.

Today I am still living, but I cannot quite name what it is that I am experiencing. I do not know if I am waiting, continuing, or just idling. All I know is that I can no longer trust the things I was once certain of.

Perhaps the problem is not what life is. Perhaps the problem is what the thing we think is life has turned us into.