Fragments in the Flow

The day, yes, the day like any other but not quite—shadows longer, or is it just me? The hum of the fridge, the buzz, constant—no, wait, that’s the fly, circling, always circling. Does it even know why? Do I know why I’m still sitting here, waiting for something to click, something to shift?—but nothing ever does, does it?

Coffee—bitter on my tongue but still, I drink, because what else am I going to do, watch the clouds split open? No, not today, but someday, I think… when? When do I get to breathe again? When does the weight lift, like fog burned away by the sun, but the sun, no, it’s hiding, always hiding behind that veil—does it feel the way I do, lost in the endless repeat, repeat, repeat?

Oh, and the way the light just hits the corner of the room, soft and golden, but fleeting, always fleeting, slipping through my fingers, like water, no—like time. Yes, time… ticking, ticking, faster now, why does it move faster when I’m still? No answer to that, of course, because the answers don’t come until you stop looking, and I—can’t—stop—looking.

The wind picks up outside, shaking the trees, the leaves like tiny hands, waving, calling me out—go, go, go, but my legs feel heavy, like roots sinking deeper into the earth. Stillness. Stillness in the chaos, in the rush of it all, but inside there’s a storm, swirling, spinning, no way out, no way in. Only the middle, the eye, calm but terrifying because what comes next, when the calm breaks, when the wind howls?

I see the clock again, always watching, always waiting for me to move but I don’t, I won’t, I can’t—what would be the point? A step forward is just a step closer to… what? Nothing? Everything? Maybe just another day, the same but different, because the light keeps changing, and so do I, but not in the ways that matter, not in the ways I want—oh, if I could just figure out what I want!

The fly buzzes again, louder now, or am I just more aware, more attuned to the little things, the things that don’t matter, but do matter when nothing else seems real. And it’s there, the answer, almost, almost—but gone again, just out of reach, always out of reach.