nothing matters

An almost drunk blogpost (or blurred edges after midnight)

I wrote seven poems today. Seven. With my hand, my pen, my breath. One for the morning fog, one for the storm, one for the silence I didn’t dare break. I don’t even remember what they all said anymore, but I remember writing. I remember how it felt to move the pen across paper while everything else stayed still for a moment.

I listened to music… lots of it. Some of it private, some public. Some of it carrying the weight of memory. I let it shape my pulse, let it carve poems out of places I don’t show in daylight. Who cares, really. (Who cares?) I do, I whisper. I do. And it doesn’t matter either way.

I played the ukulele. Felt the strings buzz against my fingers like a second heartbeat. It didn’t sound perfect, but it wasn’t about perfection. I was playing. I was here. That should count for something.

I cooked mashed potatoes from scratch and served them with fish sticks. Spinach too. The teenagers ate the fish sticks with ketchup and ignored the rest, as teenagers do. Later, I made homemade pizza, including the dough, because I still give a fuck about feeding people, even when I say I don’t. Even when they nibble and nag.

I did laundry too. Washed it, hung it outside to dry in the July air, folded it, and put it away. Invisible work. Automatic work. Work no one notices unless it isn’t done.

And yet, somehow, the world says I did nothing today. Nothing to show for it. Nothing that advances a career or raises a child brilliantly or impresses a stranger on the internet. But I was here. I wrote. I sang. I fed. I cared. I crumbled. I cared again. I loved in ways I can’t admit out loud.

And still, it feels like nothing. Because nothing is ever loud enough when no one is watching.

So I pour a drink. Two more. Or maybe just enough to blur the edges. And I write it down: nothing matters. Which is a lie. And also, somehow, the truth.