Waiting Lists for Survival

June 7, 2026

.

This morning felt like standing outside in winter without snow.

.

Just cold enough to understand

that warmth existed somewhere else,

for someone else,

behind walls I could not enter.

.

I spoke carefully,

like someone trying not to sound too emotional,

because people trust calm voices more than drowning ones.

.

A woman on the phone paused

before giving me another number,

another direction,

another hallway leading to another hallway.

.

I carried my life from one sentence to the next.

.

I explained things without explaining them.

Learned how to compress suffering

into language acceptable to strangers.

.

I said enough to sound serious,

but not enough to become a problem.

.

Somewhere between transfers and waiting music,

I realized how loneliness can become administrative.

.

Not violent enough.

Not urgent enough.

Not visible enough.

.

Just a person holding invisible bruises

while being told what qualifies as danger.

.

The morning moved forward without me.

.

Coffee cooled somewhere untouched.

Cars passed.

People bought groceries.

A country continued functioning beautifully around my unraveling.

.

I remember staring at the wall after the final call,

not crying,

not shocked,

just emptied.

.

Like someone who finally stopped knocking.

.

There is a particular kind of grief

that comes from discovering

that survival also has waiting lists.

.

And still,

I folded the disappointment quietly,

placed it beside all the other disappointments,

and continued breathing

as if that itself had become a responsibility.