Through the Fog

Category: Reckoning & Recovery

  • All Out of Borrowed Time

    I think I’m all out

    of borrowed time—

    all the second chances

    I kept spending

    like they’d never run out.

    The warnings came.

    In sleepless nights.

    In empty bottles.

    In promises

    I swore I’d keep tomorrow.

    In the people

    who looked at me

    like they were waiting

    for me to save myself.

    But tomorrow

    kept moving.

    And I kept acting

    like there’d always be

    one more sunrise

    to get it right.

    One more apology.

    One more attempt.

    One more chance

    to become someone

    I could live with.

    Now I stand here

    looking at the wreckage

    of all the things

    I thought I had time for.

    And maybe

    that’s the cruelest lesson—

    how quickly forever

    turns into someday,

    and someday

    turns into almost.

    But I’m not writing this

    as a eulogy.

    I’m writing it

    as a reckoning.

    Because maybe

    being out of borrowed time

    isn’t about dying.

    Maybe it’s about finally realizing

    you can’t keep postponing

    your own life.

    Can’t keep waiting

    for the perfect moment

    to change.

    Can’t keep treating

    your future

    like a guarantee.

    So here I am.

    Late.

    Bruised.

    Honest for once.

    With nothing left

    to borrow.

    Only what’s in front of me.

    Only this breath.

    This day.

    This chance.

    And maybe—

    maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe life begins

    the moment you stop acting

    like you have forever.

  • Borrowed Happiness

    I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

    where the edges blurred

    and the ache softened just enough

    to feel like relief.

    For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

    the full weight of myself.

    Laughter came easier,

    memories felt kinder,

    and the world loosened its grip.

    In that fog, pain was distant—

    muted, negotiable,

    something I could outrun

    with another swallow,

    another borrowed sense of peace.

    I mistook numbness for healing

    and silence for rest.

    But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

    Clear-headed and heavy,

    left alone with everything

    I tried not to feel.

    The truth waits patiently

    for sobriety,

    for morning light,

    for the moment pretending runs out.

    There’s no romance in the aftermath—

    only the echo of what I avoided

    and the knowing that happiness

    built on escape

    never survives the night.

    I was happy for an hour, yes.

    But misery has a longer memory.

    And now I’m standing in it,

    fully awake,

    trying to learn how to live

    without needing to disappear

    to feel okay.