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It seems you have grown soft. It feels like you stopped trying so hard over the last few months. Your hands don’t shake as much when you speak, but you don’t talk as loud as you used to. You’d rather seek comfort in a painless existence, shying away from pushing too hard when you run, when you lift, when you jump. You don’t go out as much, don’t drink as much, always thinking about how many hours of sleep you need for tomorrow; you won’t even do anything tomorrow, you just can’t stomach being a little bit tired. You count, you calculate, trying so very hard to not exhaust yourself even though you’re already running on fumes. You like to think it’s because you’ve learnt from past mistakes, from a time where your only focus was getting through the day. You find solace under your sheets, but feel like you keep running away from yourself.

It seems you’ve forgotten how you used to run up and down countless streets at night, beaten by a city that never sleeps, trying to fit a posture you’d moulded for yourself. You lived in near-toxic conditions, keeping yourself up and sleeping in, numbing yourself with whatever and barely surviving, existing, away from reality. You wanted to be (well) hard, and in some ways you were, as were the bones sticking out from your cheeks and hips, as were the darkened bags under your sleep-deprived eyes. Your reflection made you bite your tongue over and over again as you stood there, a shadow barely haunting your life for days at a time. Until you found yourself shivering in the cold, breathing in and out, feeling alive (and present) for the first time in weeks. You didn’t know how to exist as yourself, and still don’t; it just felt like you were supposed to live like that.

It seems you have grown soft. For some reason, you feel trapped in a cell of your own making, trying to escape whatever is making you anxious. You don’t speak up anymore, you don’t look people in the eye, you just fidget on your chair and chuckle, a slight smile creasing at your shy lips. You’d want to disappear completely, again and again, after all this time spent yearning for pride, existence, and love. You indulge in overthinking whilst staring at the ceiling and the time still passes around you; you have not moved. Too scared, too tired, too overwhelmed. Bitter words stain your tongue and fingertips: “Life’s tough, get used to it”. You never did. You never wanted to. You wanted to act your rebellion in vulnerability, in insolence and tenderness.

You wake up a bit too early, go to bed a bit too late. A week passes. It’s the weekend again and you do the same things over and over, longing for something else, you can’t quite put your finger on it. It’s like you’re shying away from your own existence. You used to laugh a bit too loudly, speak a bit too much, overshare just a tad. Tell everyone stories about yourself, about your life, make them giggle, make them cry. You lived despite yourself, attached to being accepted, being part of something bigger, brighter than you were. But now you’re terrified there might be something wrong with you. You have grown softer, easily scraping your knees on your own insecurities and anxieties. Your skin catches the glare of a sharp comment and you want to curl up into a ball and forget the world even exists around you. It seems you have indeed grown soft, and tired of yourself.

Yet something still stirs within you despite all that, embers gently spitting and crackling amidst the world’s gunfire. You just realised you aren’t taking yourself seriously. You run forward, not at full speed yet, but you run; you’ve never really stopped. Maybe one day you’ll quit making excuses, maybe you’ll stand upright for yourself, still blinded by the electric halo of street lights reflected on a rainy pavement. Maybe you’ll carry yourself taller, fuller, brighter. Maybe you finally want to live, instead of barely surviving.

Because you do want a little flat in the city.

You want to go out to the market on Sunday morning and buy yourself fresh flowers.

Listen to Jobim vinyls on a crisp record player with a cup of green tea warming the palm of your hands.

Go to the gym on Saturday morning and then get brunch. And read and write before it’s time to go out in the evening.

You need to live.

You want something for yourself.

The heavy smoke of forbidden cigarettes still haunts you, but only on weekends, only on Friday nights where the sun sets low and sweet.

On Sunday afternoons when time grows thin.

On Saturday, at lunch time, with a bitter espresso, ripping up the bill between your short fingers.

You want small somethings and fresh warm linens, light in the morning, light in the evening.

Some time.

Peace.

Quiet.

A place where you can finally allow yourself to mellow, soft and cool, sleepy chuckles punctuating your breath.

You have grown soft. Yes, softer, maybe. Live with it. Keep going.