I speak when the room forgets what sound is, and I think when my thoughts arrive without knocking, like stray dogs looking for a place to sleep. I eat when the hunger isn't mine but something the fridge whispers into me, soft and electric, like a low hum of suggestion. I wash my hands when the air starts to cling, and I pace the floor when the stillness becomes too loud to ignore. My life unfolds in small permissions, when the curtain lets the sun in, when the chair looks like it needs company, when the clock seems more confused than I am. I don’t choose to rest, I just stop moving. I don’t choose to act, I just get nudged forward by quiet things, light, noise, the shape of a room. I am not quite here, but not missing either. More like background texture. I exist like a screensaver, moving only when left alone too long. People call it calm, but it’s more like being paused. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is right. Everything just… waits.
- John 06.14.2025
- John 06.14.2025