Static Between Stations

It’s not boredom.

Not the empty kind,

not the slow Sunday, nothing-to-do kind.

A poetic peice

It’s something quieter. Stranger.

Like standing in a room full of doors

and none of them feel like yours.

My brain hums

but won’t land.

It flips—

moment to moment, option to option—

like a radio stuck between stations,

catching pieces of songs

but never the music.

---

I try.

I reach for the things

that used to feel like something—

the shows, the scroll, the snacks, the small comforts—

but everything dissolves

the second I touch it.

Nothing sticks.

Nothing clicks.

Nothing scratches.

It’s an itch with no location.

A hunger with no name.

My body says: more

My brain says: not that

My system says: keep looking

So I do.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I am restless

without direction.

Full of energy

that refuses to become action.

A spark

that won’t catch.

---

There is a tension here—

not pain,

but not peace.

Like pacing in a house

that doesn’t feel like home,

waiting for something

I can’t describe

to finally arrive.

---

I want novelty

but not chaos.

I want comfort

but not boredom.

I want something

that fits the shape of me

today—

but I don’t know

what shape that is.

---

So I hover.

Between wanting and not wanting.

Between doing and not doing.

Between almost and nothing at all.

---

It’s not emptiness.

It’s searching.

Constant, quiet searching.

For the frequency

my brain will finally recognize

as relief.

For the moment

something lands—

and stays.