Drifting in Fragments

I woke up again, no clue what time it is, but what’s time anyway—just a word, a bunch of numbers wrapped in ticking, like how my heartbeat keeps trying to chase the sun but never quite catches up. Does that even matter? The birds don’t care, they just float, fall, find the wind without asking why. And here I am, caught in thoughts that slip away like soap bubbles, too light to hold. Why do I always try to grasp what bursts? I breathe in pieces, exhale questions. Maybe the air is full of answers, but I can’t hear them over the fridge humming or the thud of my feet hitting the floor like distant thunder. I never run, though, because running means you’re going somewhere. But where? I don’t even know what "here" is. There’s something comforting in not knowing, though. Maybe it’s like being a leaf, drifting down a river, letting the current take you, trusting the rush without worrying about where it ends.