Sum Total

I wake to the hum of a world I no longer trust—
its rhythms foreign,
its pulse unwelcoming.
Who am I in this vast, indifferent tide?
A mother, a scholar, a nameless ache
gnawing at the edges of what might have been.

The clock ticks faster than thought,
time a cruel overseer whipping the hours.
Four children.
A PhD.
Rows of accomplishments stacked like unread books,
their spines stiff, their stories hollow.
What do they mean,
when the mirror shows only a stranger?

Rushed breaths, chaotic steps,
thoughts colliding like moths in a jar—
a desperate fluttering for light,
for purpose,
for anything to soften this hard, empty ground.
Where is the safety net,
the confidant,
the promise whispered in the dark
that it all matters?

I built a house of titles and roles,
but the wind is inside,
rattling the windows,
mocking the locks.
No one comes to the door.
No one waits at the table.
The silence deafens.

What is the sum total of my being?
A body
drifting in the void of its own weight.
Purpose is a distant star,
cold and collapsing,
and I am
the light it forgets to emit.