I feel like I’m not quite anchored to anything. I’m not sinking or soaring, just drifting like a leaf carried gently on water without resistance, just moving wherever the current decides. Days pass, and I do the things I’m supposed to do, but tucked in between, I feel slightly detached. I am present, but not fully there.
I wouldn’t completely call it sadness or even confusion. I suppose it is just this quiet in-between. Some kind where nothing feels visibly wrong, yet not entirely right either.
I wake up, go through my routine, engage with the world in the small, expected ways. I laugh when something is funny and respond when spoken to. I mean I show up but my insides are floating.
I’m not chasing anything too hard or holding onto anything too tightly. I’m just existing in a kind of unhurried space where time moves, but I don’t feel the need to race with it. Probably, that’s not such a bad thing because in a world that frequently demands urgency, do this, do that, there’s a comfort in drifting with the wind and allowing yourself to sometimes exist without pressure, or the constant need to define everything that comes your way.
Drifting is not necessarily a lack of direction. I see it often times as a recalibration. Just that small moment where life lets you breathe before asking you to run again. So for now, I won’t fight it or rush to fix it. I’ll just let myself drift until I find something worth anchoring to again.
My response to the freewriters daily prompt
