Tomorrow is gone (What if I died today)

No warning, no time to prepare, no quick bucket list check.
Would the flashback of this life make me proud to call it mine?
Would I even want to raise my hand and claim it to be mine?
Or would it be a parade of I-could-haves and what-ifs?

I’ll take a wild guess — the regret would be overwhelming.
So much so, I would rather go, once and for all, without looking back.
The sorrow would be so that the aches in my body would feel like a breeze.
The pain of the past would take over my soul, and I wouldn’t be able to look away. This time I would have to face it.

All my life, the fear of failure got me stuck in an in-between of being good
— not great.
The fear of rejection and the need for validation made me never see things through.

Rough sketches without finished pieces.
First drafts without final revisions.
Beginnings without ends.
Saying to myself, I would come back to it later,
but knowing deep down that I would never.
Being productive while producing absolutely nothing.

Now, all my chances to finish final ends are gone with tomorrow.
At least, I won’t spend tomorrow overthinking things I could do,
but will never get around to.
Tomorrow I won’t worry that this creativity was wasted on me, and how I let down the muses and Gods.
Tomorrow won’t haunt me to be more productive, more active, more alive.
Tomorrow I won’t feel like I’m wasting any more of my time.
Tomorrow is gone and so is time, what a relief.

Finally, a vacation away from this voice in my head.
The voice that keeps telling me nothing I do is good enough or ever enough.
You should’ve started sooner. You should’ve tried harder.
You should be better.
If only you hadn’t quit. But you did.
You quit everything you start as soon as things get a bit hard.
Your natural talents can only get you so far, my dear.

This is my final draft, my only final draft.
It drifts away, lost at sea, in this ocean of regret and scrutiny.
The silver linings keep me afloat. They always have.
Tomorrow, that voice won’t have anything left to say.
Yet, waiting for tomorrow, I think about all the things I could’ve done.
What I’ve failed to realize all these years is, same as yesterday, tomorrow doesn’t exist.

All my fears that I fought so hard to avoid came true.
I’ve failed by not trying. My own judgment rejected me.
I’ve wasted all my time by fearing wasted time.
I could go on for days, but I don’t have days to go on for.
I don’t have any to spare.

With whatever time I have left, I ask myself — will I be remembered?
A loving wife, daughter, and friend — I hope. What else?
What did I leave behind? Did I matter, outside these lines?
If only I had a bit more time.

©Mayra Gomes. All rights reserved.