Drift Under Load

I did not decide to stop writing. I lost the conditions that made writing possible.

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What I had been building as stability began to unravel in mid-February. Not all at once, but in sequence. Things I had counted on ended in ways I had not planned for.

What was supposed to be a reset did not resolve. It lingered.

None of it, on its own, would have been decisive. Together, it created a constant friction. Just enough to keep things moving, not enough to restore momentum.

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Around the same time, my body started keeping its own ledger. I woke up tired and pushed through anyway. The kind of fatigue that does not stop you, but quietly narrows what you can reach.

Writing requires surplus. I have been operating without it.

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The drift was not mysterious. It was mechanical.

When things fail in succession and resolution stays out of reach, something gives. For the past month, I narrowed to the essentials: eat, sleep, stabilize. Everything else receded.

I adapted, and in adapting, I drifted.

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A month is not catastrophic. It is long enough to notice.

Now I have.

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The weather has been relentless, heat that keeps you inside, suspended. When it breaks, I will start walking again.

Walking restores something physical. Writing restores something mental. Both create margin.

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It turns out the way back is rarely dramatic. A little movement and a few honest sentences, repeated, are usually enough to make a liar out of the problem.