I Almost Always Delete What I Wanted to Say

I’m in my early thirties.
From the outside, everything looks fine. I have work. There are people around. The city is big and bright, like it was built on purpose so it wouldn’t have a past.
And still I catch myself doing the same thing.
I type a message. I look at it. I delete it.
Not because it’s cruel.

Not because it’s stupid.

Because it’s too much mine.
Sometimes it’s just a thought like: I’m lonely today, even though someone is right here.

Sometimes it’s that I’m tired of acting like everything makes sense and everything is under control.

Sometimes it’s that I can’t remember the moment I stopped wanting the thing I was walking toward.
I notice how easily other people talk.

About food. Plans. Who annoys them.

And in my head there’s a line of sentences that never made it out.
The strange part is I don’t need anyone to fix my life.

I don’t need advice.

I don’t even really need anyone to agree with me.
I need a place where I can say it out loud without explaining why I’m allowed to feel that way.
The other night I was sitting by the window. The city was lit up. Everything looked clean, correct, almost beautiful.

And I thought: if someone asked me right now whether I was happy, I would probably say yes.
Then I would sit there for a long time saying nothing.
Because the real word wasn’t unhappy.

It wasn’t I want to leave everything.
It was just this: I’m not sure this is my life. It might just be a well-assembled version of the person I’m supposed to be.
I haven’t told anyone that.

Not even the people closest to me.
Not because I’m afraid of a fight.

Because I’m afraid that once I say it, I can’t pretend the thought was never there.
So I’m writing it here.

No name.

No hope that someone will understand it perfectly.
Just so that, for once, I don’t hit delete.