April 29, 2025 by Elias Dunmore

I’ve been alive for 8093 days.
Or 22 years, 1 month, and 26 days.
Or 265 months and 26 days.

There’s a thousand different ways to slice it, but it all points to the same truth: I’m just ticking down the minutes toward the inevitable end.

If I had to describe myself right now — not the polished version people expect, but the real snapshot — a few words come to mind:
Tired.
Restless.
Hopeful in the stupid, stubborn way only someone who’s been disappointed a hundred times can still be.
Lonely, but not desperate.
Angry, sometimes for reasons I can’t even name.
Soft, even though I pretend not to be.

Somewhere along the way, living started to feel less like an adventure and more like survival. Waking up, doing the next thing, breathing through the hours. Sometimes it feels like the biggest accomplishment is just staying in motion.

I’m not miserable. That would be easier to explain. It’s more like… a hum in the background. A constant low buzz of “this isn’t quite it, but maybe it will be tomorrow.”

I don’t know when I started thinking about time like this — breaking it down into days, months, years. Maybe it’s because counting it feels like some small way of fighting it. Like if I can name it, measure it, I won’t waste it.

But honestly? I probably already have wasted a lot of it. Lost too much energy on people who didn’t care. Held on too long to dreams that didn’t fit. Stayed silent when I should’ve screamed.

And still.
And still.

There’s a small part of me — the reckless, stubborn part — that believes there’s something out there that’ll make all these slow days worth it.

Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s brave.
Maybe it’s just what surviving looks like.