Half

I am sick of living in half-weeks.

I need an expanse. I need space. I need an organic, unrushed rhythm. Instead of this endless, stuttered churning.

A half-week isn’t long enough for anything. So I’ve filled it with other things. Things that aren’t anything, but aren’t quite nothing either. Noise. Clutter.

None of it is soothing, but it’s become a compulsion. An attempt to blur the edges of the half-weeks. It’s more likely to blur the edges of my sanity with chronic stress and poor quality sleep.

I don’t know how to fix it.

It’s not such a big thing, surely. It’s only one thing, among many other things, and all the other things I like. It’s just this one thing. But it somehow taints all the rest. A low-grade, background malaise, radiating, seeping into every surface.

But changing it is out of bounds. The immovable object. The unstoppable force. I am neither immovable nor unstoppable. I am frail. And I am waning.

It’s time to find a way around. A redirect. The noise isn’t helping, but I can’t cut it out until I have some sort of clear channel forward.

How to flow? How to sweep past the half-halt and focus on where I’m going?

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