Chasing Time: Between Silence, Rain, and Restless Thoughts

The clock hums, ticking soft but steady

and the light outside—yellow, cold—drips

down the glass like it’s got nowhere to be.

I could sit here forever, but my legs itch,

restless, like they know a secret I don’t.

There’s a pile of laundry I should fold,

shirts half-splayed, jeans crumpled like dead leaves

but folding clothes feels like trying to fold time,

trying to smooth out the wrinkles of hours

I’ve already wasted,

a kind of quiet futility.

Someone outside shouts, then laughs,

their voice cracks the stillness like it’s trying

to wake me up, like I’ve fallen into this trance

of beige walls and unfinished thoughts.

I should get up, move,

but what if I miss the moment when everything shifts,

when the answer lands soft,

like a feather in my chest?

The air feels thick, like there’s something in it

I can’t quite touch. Maybe it’s the rain coming,

or maybe it’s just the weight of things unsaid,

questions half-formed and left to hover

in the space between waking and sleep.

I wonder if I’ll ever know what I’m looking for,

or if the not knowing is the point,

if the search itself is the only real thing.

But my tea’s gone cold,

and the laundry’s still waiting,

so I guess I’ll get up, fold the fabric,

smooth the edges,

pretend for a minute

that I’ve got this all figured out.