The Quiet Decay of Things I Meant to Consume

I’ve convinced myself that I need to be healthy. That the answer, somehow, is always in what I choose to gather. Fruits. Clean choices. Better intentions as opposed to my chocolate addiction. It doesn’t really matter what kind, or what they’re supposed to do for me. I just keep collecting them, like proof that I’m trying and it always looks like progress.

The same way I approach everything else, with the quiet promise that this time will be different, that this time I’ll get it right. A quiet morning. A clear appetite. A version of me that knows exactly what to do with what I’ve stored away.

But I’m hardly hungry.

And so the fruits sit.

They sit while time moves differently around them. First fresh, then waiting, then uncertain. I see them. I acknowledge them. I even plan for them. Later tonight. Tomorrow morning. Or during my lunch break. 

I never mean to ignore them, but I do. I let them stay just close enough for me to feel responsible, but not close enough to eat them.

Then they begin to change.

Soft at the edges. Forgotten in the middle. Turning slowly into something I no longer recognize, but I still hesitate to throw them. Because letting go feels like admitting failure. Like admitting I chose wrong. Spent wrong. Calculated wrong.

So I hold on.

I tell myself it’s still salvageable. That if I just cut away the bad parts, what remains will still be okay to consume. 

As if decay can be edited.

As if time can be negotiated.

Until one day it becomes undeniable that there is nothing left to save. Not really. Only the quiet truth that I waited past the point of return, again.

And then I throw it away.

Now I always ask myself why I believe postponement (of the inevitable) is a form of care and not just to fruits. Also this isn’t about fruits.