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

Most days I move just enough
to count as living.

I breathe.
I answer emails.
I nod in the right places.

Nothing hurts,
which is its own kind of pain.

The world arrives muted,
as if someone padded the walls
and forgot to tell me.

Joy used to come in color.
Now it arrives on delay—
grainy, desaturated,
broadcast from miles away.

I eat because I’m supposed to.
Sleep because I have to.
Laugh because it keeps people
from asking questions.

There are moments I wait for feeling
like someone waits for a bus
that might be late
or might not come at all.

Occasionally, something cracks—
a song, a memory,
the way sunlight hits the floor—
and for a second the room sharpens.

Then the edge dulls again.

I’m not drowning.
I’m not sinking.
I’m just treading surface,
quietly,
politely,
hoping the current shifts on its own.

Until then,
I keep moving.
Just enough
to count.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
When the body goes into conservation mode,
feeling becomes a luxury
and numbness the cheapest fuel.

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