A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

Ambient Collapse

Every day arrives already bruised.

The news speaks in absolutes,
sharp enough to cut bread,
sharp enough to cut people out of your life.
I nod along to half of it,
doubt the other half,
carry all of it anyway—
like groceries with no handles.

My phone knows me too well.
It feeds me fear shaped like concern,
outrage wrapped in clever fonts,
memories from a year ago
when I was already tired
but didn’t know the name for it yet.

I keep thinking collapse will feel dramatic—
sirens, smoke, something cinematic.
Instead it’s emails, deadlines,
laughing at work while something inside
quietly updates its exit plan.

I watch strangers argue online
with the devotion of monks,
swearing their version of the truth
will save us all.
I mute them.
I feel guilty.
I mute more.

At night the house settles.
Pipes click. Floors sigh.
The world shrinks back down
to a survivable size.
I sit in the dark
counting the people I’d still show up for
if everything finally fell apart.

Morning comes anyway.
It always does.
I put my shoes on.
I step back into the noise.
Not brave.
Not hopeful.
Just unwilling
to disappear quietly.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
The noise wants everything from us—our certainty, our outrage, our attention. This is a quiet refusal. Not a solution. Not a rally cry. Just a decision to keep showing up without pretending it’s easy.

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