The Days That Blur

The Days That Blur

The days don’t disappear.

They dissolve.

One into the next, without edges, without markers, without anything sharp enough to distinguish morning from afternoon or Tuesday from Thursday. Time doesn’t pass down here — it spreads.

The first sign of the blur is the sameness.

Not routine.

Not stability.

Just repetition without recognition.

I wake up, but it doesn’t feel like waking.

It feels like continuing.

The same heaviness.

The same dimness.

The same slow-motion body trying to rise through molasses and quicksand.

The second sign is the loss of sequence.

Events don’t line up.

Conversations don’t anchor.

Tasks don’t stay in memory long enough to form a timeline.

I know things happened — I just don’t know when.

Did I shower today or yesterday?

Did I eat breakfast or just think about eating?

Did I respond to that message or only rehearse the response in my head?

Everything feels like déjà vu and amnesia at the same time.

The third sign is the flattening of emotion.

Not numbness — monotone.

Every day carries the same emotional temperature.

Not high.

Not low.

Just… level.

A steady, unchanging hum of effort and heaviness.

Nothing spikes.

Nothing dips.

Nothing stands out.

The days blur because nothing interrupts them.

The fourth sign is the absence of memory markers.

In the sky, everything is marked —

the rush, the brightness, the ideas, the movement.

On the ground, nothing marks anything.

There are no peaks.

No valleys.

No moments sharp enough to hold onto.

Just a long, continuous stretch of dim light and slow motion.

The fifth sign is the body’s autopilot.

I move through tasks without inhabiting them.

I wash dishes without remembering the water.

I fold laundry without remembering the fabric.

I walk through rooms without remembering why I entered them.

My body performs the day.

My mind watches from a distance.

The sixth sign is the quiet grief —

the realization that I am living days I cannot feel.

Not wasted days.

Not empty days.

Just blurred days.

Days that pass without leaving fingerprints.

Days that exist without imprinting themselves on me.

Days that feel like copies of each other, printed on thin paper.

My children notice the blur in the way I pause before answering simple questions.

In the way I ask what time it is more often than usual.

In the way I look at the clock as if it might explain something.

They don’t see panic.

They see drift.

The seventh sign is the collapse of urgency.

Nothing feels pressing.

Nothing feels late.

Nothing feels soon.

Everything feels like “now,”

and “now” feels like a stretched, diluted version of time.

The days blur because the self inside them is blurred.

The eighth sign is the quiet surrender —

not giving up, but giving in to the truth:

I am not moving through time.

Time is moving around me.

I am not living days.

Days are happening to me.

I am not marking time.

Time is marking me.

This is the Ground’s most subtle weather —

not heavy like the weight,

not sticky like the molasses,

not treacherous like the quicksand,

not suffocating like the silent panic.

This is the erosion of time itself.

The slow fade of days into each other.

The quiet collapse of sequence, memory, and meaning.

These are the days that blur.

Not lost.

Not wasted.

Just softened beyond recognition.