Today, the morning repeated itself in the same familiar pattern.
I stared for a long while at the blank page of my notebook, wondering what to write, and eventually decided to leave it as it was.
These days, I can feel the faint traces of lingering fatigue in the air. The cause of this fatigue is scattered without pattern throughout my daily routine—the roughly eighteen waking hours that refuse to follow any rhythm. It’s like a hairbrush used and then misplaced without thought.
Anxiety, it seems, has become something closer than a roommate, coworker, or even family member—a constant, undeniable presence sharing my everyday space. Yes, I acknowledge anxiety’s very existence. A large, imaginary storm has already passed, leaving a peculiar certainty, entirely baseless, that the next one will be smaller.
This morning feels tinged with a strangely peaceful anxiety.
Yet, these ramblings aren't aimed at seeking anyone else's understanding. Perhaps I’m simply jotting them down to remember the storms that passed, or to puzzle over myself in the future when I can't fully understand who I was.
Ah... he understood me. He still does. Amazingly so.
