The usual sequence, as I said. I keep showing up to my desk, to conversations, to deadlines. I do what needs to be done. Sometimes more. But when the noise fades and the notifications slow down, I’m left with something I can’t quite explain. Not a crisis. Not peace either. Just this strange middle. A pause I don't ask for, but somehow end up inside.
That’s been happening a lot lately.
I’m not stuck between big life decisions.
I’m not swinging between sadness and joy.
I’m just somewhere in between.
One moment I'm sure. The next, I'm not.
It’s hard to explain.
It isn’t absence, because I still feel.
It isn’t silence, because my thoughts are still loud.
But trying to describe it is like trying to hold on to fog.
One minute I feel fine. The next, I question it.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what disconnect disguised as function looks like. My mind never really stops. Even when I sit still, there's always some kind of motion happening inside. Thoughts loop and repeat, running through what I said, what I didn't, what I should have. I build futures in my head, then question everything from the past. I imagine too much, overanalyze everything, and spiral through it all. Quietly. Constantly. As always.
And when it spirals long enough, there's this quiet presence that begins to surface. Not loud enough to interrupt, but present in a way I can't ignore. It feels like getting close to a question I never quite say, something I'm not ready to name. I wonder if any of it mattered. If I did. It doesn't rush or shout. It just stays, beneath the noise, beneath the motion, beneath the doing, like a quiet knowing I carry but rarely face.
There are days when I feel like I'm actually here, not just moving through days. Clear-headed. Energized. I move with intention, check things off, feel connected to what I'm doing. The momentum makes sense, like something inside is syncing back into place. But then there are other days when that current fades without warning. I go quiet. I delay conversation, put things off. Not because anything is wrong exactly, but because something feels out of reach. Not exhaustion. Not sadness. Not something I can point to, but still there. Just a kind of disconnection I can't fully name.
Sleep has felt off too. Some nights, my mind stay active long after the world has gone still. On others, I sleep through the night but wake up with the presence I can't explain. Time feels warped. Some hours rush by, others stretch and linger. I try to anchor myself, but nothing feels steady. I'm here, but slightly out of the rhythm with everything around me.
And still, I know something has shifted. Not loudly or all at once, but in the quieter moments. The silence feels different now. Familiar things seem a little further away. It's like I'm walking through the same life, but viewing it from just outside myself. Everything looks the same, but something underneath has changed.
Maybe that's what I've been sensing beneath it all. There's a kind of presence that doesn't arrive suddenly. It doesn't crash in or ask to be named. It just settles quietly. In the space between words. In the pause before replying. In the memories that surface without warning. It's there when I keep moving but stop asking where I'm headed. When I go through the motions, but something feels slightly out of step. It doesn't pull me under, but it lingers.
This might be what a pause feels like. Not one I chose, or even noticed at first. But one that gradually formed around me. Like it's asking me to be still for a while. To stop filling the quiet. To stop rushing just because I'm used to it. I don't know how long it will last, but for now, I'm learning to stay with it.
There’s no big lesson at the end of this.
No clarity. No grand shift.
Just a quiet truth: something changed.
And maybe I did too.
Not drastically. Not loudly.
But enough.
And for now, maybe that’s okay.
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