On Not Knowing Where to Begin

Today felt like a sigh I didn’t get to finish.

There was no one moment I can point to — just a slow unfolding of things not going quite right. Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth a headline. Just the small, invisible kinds of disappointment that collect behind the eyes.

I kept trying to start something. But every beginning came with friction — like walking into a room and forgetting why I entered. I wasn’t sad, not really. Just sort of stuck.
Somewhere between wanting to be still and wanting to run.

I thought I’d write something clear, something that made sense.
Something about presence. Or trying again.
But all I’ve got is this: a blank page, a few scattered words, and a strange kind of relief in saying it plainly — I just don’t know anymore.

Maybe that’s okay. Maybe not every day needs to mean something. Maybe just noticing the way it felt — the tension, the tiredness, the quiet letdown of small expectations — is enough.

So I’m writing this, messy as it is. Not trying to wrap it up with a bow.

Maybe this is the start.