A Day of Writing Down When I Felt Useful

Monday. Not yet light, the streetlamps still yellow.

I am fifty and have driven for hire for almost eight years. Lately there are afternoons when I sit in the car with the engine off, my hands still on the wheel, and one sentence rises in my head: what am I driving around all these days for. It is not exactly sadness. More like something emptier.

My daughter said: "Dad, try writing it down. Write the moments you feel useful." I thought she was joking. But this morning I brought a small notebook and left it in the door pocket. I only write once I have stopped and switched off the engine, never while driving.

5:20. The first fare. A vegetable seller stands at the intersection with two big baskets, the smell of water spinach still wet with dew.

"Driver, take me to the wholesale market, please. If I'm late there won't be any spots left."

"Sure, sit tight. I'll take the back way to avoid the jam."

"Thank you."

I take the small roads and skip the construction stretch. We arrive with fifteen minutes to spare. She climbs out, hauls the two baskets, and turns back to say: "Thank you, driver." Just two words. But at five in the morning they sound completely different from how they sound at three in the afternoon. I pull over to the curb and write one line.

8:30. A college student bursts out of the dormitory, face pale.

"Sir, I'm late for my exam."

"Just sit still. You're not late yet."

I do not drive recklessly, only choose the roads with fewer red lights. At the school gate there are three minutes left. The boy slams the door and sprints off without looking back. I do not need him to look back. I sit in the car a while, my hands still warm from the wheel.

10:40. Nobody calls. I park under a tree, turn off the air conditioning, roll the window down for a breeze. It is stifling. The armrest on the right is peeling its leather, and I have meant to replace it since last year. Two voices in my head.

Taking people from one place to another, what is useful about that.

The vegetable seller made it to the market in time.

Anyone could have driven her. It did not have to be me.

A third voice says nothing. I sit listening to the cicadas until the phone buzzes. This is something I cannot settle this morning.

12:30. Lunch of rice with pork rib at the usual sidewalk stall. The owner sees my car before I even get out and calls over: "Rice with ribs, a little rice and lots of soup?" I nod. The sour soup is piping hot, lightly tangy with tamarind, scented with sawtooth herb. I eat slowly. A small thing: someone remembers what I eat. I do not write it in the notebook, because it is not a moment when I was useful. But I remember it.

14:15. A woman gets out downtown, in a rush. I glance in the mirror and see a small wallet on the back seat. A thick wallet, still zipped. I call through the app and nobody answers. On the second try she picks up. Her voice shakes: "Oh no, my documents are in there." I turn the car around, and ten minutes later I hand it back in person.

She takes it, says: "Thank you." Then turns away immediately, because she is busy. Nothing more. I feel a small drop too, honestly. But I sit back in the car and realize I do not need her to say anything else. It was done, and it was the right thing to do.

17:40. I pick up my daughter from tutoring. Mi climbs into the back seat, tired, holding the bread roll I bought ahead of time.

"Dad, how many did you write today?"

"Three. And two places where I felt I was no use at all."

"Which one is your favorite?"

"Don't know yet. Let me think."

She smiles, eats her roll, and leans her head against the window. When I drop her at home, I realize there is a line I have not written: driving my daughter home in the evening, listening to her chew bread behind me. I add it.

21:00. I park in the alley and switch off the engine. I read the notebook again. Four moments of feeling useful: the vegetable seller, the student, the wallet, and the drive with my daughter. Two moments of not: this morning under the tree, and late afternoon when a passenger canceled a ride. Nothing big in there. Some of it lasted only fifteen minutes.

I do not know what I am living for. Today I did not find out either. Maybe many people ask that question without saying it, and it is a question to sit beside, not a problem to solve before bed. What I know today is only this small: there were moments in the day when I was exactly where someone needed a person to be. And this notebook keeps those moments for me, so that on an afternoon in a parked car with the engine off, I have something to look back at.

If the feeling of emptiness or pointlessness lasts for weeks, or starts to upset your eating, sleeping, or work, please do not carry it alone. Talk to a professional, such as a counselor. The question "what am I living for" is not strange in itself, but when it becomes too heavy to bear, there is no need to wait. And if you think about hurting yourself, even as a passing thought, tell someone you trust today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

This article was created with AI assistance.