A Quiet Fourth of July
At some point, we realize that life is no longer unfolding so much as repeating. This is perfectly normal. You see it most clearly in the small rituals that carry on regardless of how you feel about them. Mine is an oddly harmonious symmetry of waking up at roughly the same hour and moving, with practiced efficiency, into the day. I wake up. I work. I speak to familiar faces without quite seeing them. I come home. I sleep, if my mind allows it. Then I do it again. Time passes quietly, without novelty or explanation, doing its job without asking for commentary. This doesn’t feel like despair. It feels like maintenance. What changes first is what I want. Intensity loses its appeal. Chaos stops feeling meaningful. Novelty begins to register as effort rather than excitement. Peace becomes attractive. Silence too. A good night’s sleep starts to feel less like laziness and more like a small, necessary mercy. I am tired. Not dramatically tired, just worn down by accumulation. Too many voices....
