Still Carrying It

I wake up tired.
I go to sleep tired.
In between, I professionally hold things:
problems, promises, unpaid dreams, awkward silences,
grocery bags and endless "let's get a dog" negotiations I didn’t ask for.

I have mastered the art of smiling just enough
to not get asked if I'm okay.
(I'm not. But it’s fine. It's a hobby now.)

I carry expectations like groceries with the bottom ripping out.
I carry traditions like a group project where I'm still doing all the work.
I carry family loyalty like a subscription I never signed up for but still have to pay.
No refund, no cancellation policy.

More than seventeen years of climbing ladders,
winning trophies no one dusts off anymore,
and somehow I still read the price tags at the grocery store
like I’m studying for an exam I can't afford to fail.

Some days the weight feels noble.
Other days it feels like an elaborate prank that
I forgot I agreed to play on myself.

There is no applause.
There is no break.
There is only the slow realization:
I am the guy who showed up once,
did the hard thing,
and now gets asked to do it forever.

This is not a tragedy.
This is not bravery.
This is just inertia,
worn like a slightly tight suit
I’m too tired to take off.

And somehow,
against all odds,
I'm still here,
holding it all like it's fine.

(It's not fine.
But whatever.
Tomorrow’s coming anyway.)