Field Note (Entry Four): When the Thread Goes Quiet

I woke up today.
I should be grateful.
I walked the twins — full use of my limbs.
I should be grateful.
I had breakfast, made tea. The sun is shining. Birds glide across the sky. I live on sacred land.
I should be grateful.

But something inside feels hollow.
Like I’m drifting on a black ocean — no map, no anchor. Just water and sky.
Just the echo of something I can’t name.

I’ve been walking this path toward wholeness.
Toward the man I’m here to become.
But lately... I don’t recognize my life.
Or the version of me I’ve grown into.

It’s terrifying.
It’s exhilarating.
And right now — it’s just exhausting.

I feel numb.
Still too weird.
Still too much.
Still not enough.

Part of me wonders — is it too late?
Too late to connect, to create, to be received?
What if this is it? What if I’m already fully formed — and there’s nothing more coming?

I know it’s not true.
But today… it feels that way.

And I just needed to say that out loud.
Not for sympathy.
Not for answers.
Just because the silence was getting too loud.

If you’re in it too — this fog, this flattening — you’re not alone.
We’re still here.
Even when it feels like the thread is unraveling.
Even when we can’t see the next step.
Even when all we can do is whisper into the void:

“I don’t know where this is going. But I’m still here.”

— Alex

[Written while listening to “The Waves (Live at RAK)” by Villagers — because some songs know before we do.]