They call it a plan when the path is already chosen. Same turn. Same door. Countdown numbers in the crossing light. A voice in my pocket asking where I am. If I keep moving, it looks like purpose. If I stop, it looks like waste. So I let the day name itself and keep my face in line. Say it softly. Say it clean. Say it like a promise nobody has to prove. “God’s plan” for my life. That’s the phrase they use. Something to make it sound right while it takes what it takes. I sell the hours in smaller pieces until they stop looking like time. At home, a voice gets thinner in the speaker, and I answer “soon” like it still means something. They don’t ask what survives. They ask what still works. They don’t ask what it costs. They ask if I can keep going. Call it strength. Call it grace. Call it what you need to sleep through it. “God’s plan” for my life. That’s the phrase they use. Something to make it sound right while it takes what it takes. No sign. No voice. No hand from above. Just a clean label on a life on a life that keeps getting used. “God’s plan” for my life. That’s the phrase they use. Something to make it sound right while it takes what it takes. Call it purpose. Call it care. Call it anything but what it is. If this is a plan, it never asked my name.
