I Have No Umbrella

I Have No Umbrella

Sometimes, life collapses all at once

not into a tidy stack,

but into a shapeless avalanche of thoughts,

spilling across the floor of my mind.

I stand in the middle of it,

unsure which piece to pick up,

or where to place it once I do.

If someone asked me how I feel,

the words “I’m not okay”

would sound too flat, too small for the weight I carry.

And if I said “I’m falling apart”,

the next question would come sharp as a pin:

Why?

What’s wrong?

And I’d be expected to answer

to build a case for my own exhaustion.

But there is no single cause, no dramatic event.

Sometimes the heaviness comes quietly,

slipping in like fog,

clinging to the edges of my thoughts.

I worry about things that haven’t happened yet,

about disappointments that might never arrive.

I am terrified of not living up to expectations –

especially the ones I set for myself.

If I can’t see the promise of joy at the finish line,

I never step onto the track.

Sometimes the journey itself looks too steep,

and the voice whispers, “What if you fail?”

So I stand still,

and the world mistakes it for laziness.

The truth is simpler, and far less forgiving:

I am tired.

Bone-tired.

I dream of cooking something rich and warm,

but hunger makes me impatient.

I want more than a handful of snacks,

yet I can’t afford the comfort of a restaurant.

So, don’t ask me how I am.

It is raining,