A truth:
The sun rises whether or not you ask it to.
It climbs the sky without waiting for your consent,
without checking to see if you’re ready to begin again.

There is no beginning.
Only heaviness that arrives without ceremony—
a fog that speaks in your voice,
wears your body like a rumor.

There is no single origin.
No dramatic collapse.
Just the slow dissolving of edges,
the soft fading of color from the map of your world.

Some days, you are an echo
trying to remember the shape of your own name.
Other days, you are not even that.

There is no violence in this kind of sadness.
It is quiet.
A stillness with teeth.
A hum behind the bones.
It does not shout, it waits.
And in the waiting, you disappear.

You become fluent in pretending.
And exhausted by translation.

You check your pulse, yes, still there.
But everything else feels like absence.

You live in grays now.
Not storms—just sky without contrast.
Not grief—just blankness.
Not pain—just fog.

You sit beside people and feel like furniture.
You lay in bed and feel like a question mark without a sentence.
You stand in the shower and try to remember what it felt like to feel clean.

And then
without reason,
without instruction,
without deserving it

a crack.

Not light exactly, but a shift.
A moment that doesn’t ache.
A small breath that doesn’t drag like a chain.

A pause. A flicker. A blink.
Not a turning point.
Just a moment where the weight shifted slightly—not gone,
just moved from your chest to your shoulders.

There’s no breakthrough. No moment of clarity.
Only a brief thinning of the fog.
You can almost see the shape of yourself in the distance—blurred, unfamiliar.
But still there.

It settles into your clothes,
your skin,
your breath.
It makes memory slippery.
Time bends inside it.
You live inside a low sky,
where everything is muted,
even your own voice.

But sometimes—
just sometimes—
the fog lifts an inch.
Not enough to see clearly.
Just enough to notice
you’re still standing where you were.

You haven’t disappeared.
You haven’t dissolved.
You’re just
quiet.

But you’re still here.
And for now,
that’s what you have.

Not hope.
Not joy.
Just breath, and the space between.

And maybe that’s not enough.
But maybe it’s
all there is.