“What seems to be left is a soft, lingering haze. Like living beneath a city smothered in smog.”

Sometimes, a quiet disinterest washes over me. The world becomes dull, almost a muted gray. Everything feels stale, almost irrelevant.

I’ll suddenly feel a warm ember of excitement, inviting for a breath and then it turns cold just as quickly as it came.

“A quiet haze settles in — not sadness, not joy, just a strange middle ground.”

What seems to be left is a soft, lingering haze. Like living beneath a city smothered in smog.

I can’t help but find the humor on how quickly it sneaks up on me, like a cat prowling through the city, close but out of sight. I’ll be full of ideas, hobbies, anything and then I’ll blink and everything is flat again.

Things that I swore by weigh heavily in my hands. Add that to the surrounding gray, and you’d think I was sad. I have to sit and wonder that myself, is it sadness? Not exactly, It’s more like a odd middle ground, nothing feels bad, but not great either.

I struggle to name it. Maybe I’m just wired this way. I’ve danced with the idea that maybe it’s some kind of weird signal, to give me pause. To remind me that chasing every spark isn’t always the answer.

Inside the Haze

Some might find this post to be similar to my previous one “When It Feels Like Nothing Matters: A Journey Through The Darkness” And I can see why, but stick around, by the end you might notice the difference.

It’s an odd space to live in — not despair, not joy, just a muted in-between. Days move, but they feel weightless, like turning pages you’re not really reading.

I still laugh at jokes, still show up where I’m expected, but inside there’s a quiet hum of nothing.

Sometimes I’ll start something new, hoping it’ll light a spark — a sketchbook, a stack of books, a fresh playlist. I’ll spend hours hunting for the perfect supplies, curating ideas, feeling that first flicker of excitement.

Then, when it’s time to begin, it all feels heavy. The motivation slips away like water through my fingers.

“Days move, but they feel weightless — like turning pages you’re not really reading.”

Other times I try to shake it off with small rituals: a walk around the block, rearranging a corner of my room, lighting a candle.

It helps for a moment.

But the haze always seems to wait just outside the door, patient and familiar.

What’s strange is how invisible it is. On the outside, I look fine. I laugh, I plan, I join in.

Inside, it’s foggy — like I’m present but only half tethered, floating through conversations and days that should feel more alive than they do.

Sitting With the Fog

Sometimes, I don’t know where to go next. Not just with this blog, but with most things. The haze doesn’t give me a map or even offer GPS suggestions, the nerve.

It just lays beside me staring up at the clouds– not judging me or comforting me, just a quiet companion. 

Deciding feels heavy most days. Should I dissect this feeling? Maybe fight it? Accepting it might be the answer too.

Unfortunately none of these suggestions are concrete when reaching for them. Maybe the haze is just a space where uncertainty dominates. 

“Maybe it’s fine to not know — to sit quietly, to acknowledge the haze without forcing it to change.”

I used to think that I had to break out of it. Hunt that spark down. Diagnose the cause. Fit it as if it was a problem. Now though, I’m not sure.

Maybe it’s fine to not know and just sit quietly, to acknowledge its shape but not forcing a change. 

I don’t have any clean-cut answers, nor the will to demand them. All I can do is keep breathing in the smog and pray for more trees to cleanse the air around me. 

Still, I wonder: is there lesson here, or is this simply a place I have to adapt to? 

Building a Home in the Fog

“It’s ironic that the haze feels protective, even though it’s the reason for my hollowness.”

-Quill

I’ve started to wonder if this isn’t something I need to fight, but something I created.

A shield to protect myself from the world. 

If I had created it, had I become dependent on it, like a newborn waiting for comfort it knows will come.

At some point, the visits became permanent. I’ve already built a house, parked the car and made this my permanent address. 

Do I even want to challenge it? Do I truly know what I want or how I feel? 

Sometimes I do catch myself wondering what would happen if the haze disappeared. Would the world be too harsh, too loud, too draining?

Maybe I already know these answers and I’m just running away, blaming the haze but also seeking its comfort. 

It’s hypocritical of me, I know– but aren’t most humans the same? 

Though the hypocrisy isn’t lost on me. I can’t help but remember the hobbies left behind, the plans I’ve intentionally let fade away.

Sure it’s easier in theory, but am I actually losing pieces of who I could be? 

I don’t think I’m running away from wanting joy. Everyone wants joy but it’s also a risky concept. Like stepping out into battle without armor.

I’m not sure I’m ready to let it go, nor do I even want to. At this point do I even need to?

I don’t know, the lack of desire to make that decision might just answer my question. 

Do you live with your own kind of haze? A quiet and comfortable emptiness that’s difficult to leave?

Maybe we’re both standing in the gray, unsure and curious. But I wonder is curiosity enough to step beyond the gray? 

Windows in the Fog

Just as I was mulling all this over, my mom recently pointed out something that landed harder than I expected.

She told me she worries because I don’t seem to have a desire to do anything – to go anywhere, want anything or even leave the house.

And maybe she’s right, at least partly.

 I do have shut-in tendencies. Most days I’m content tucked away with my cat, safe from crowds and loudness.

But every now and then, when boredom hits hard, I crave people —a dinner with friends, a night that shakes the quiet loose.

It’s not that I want nothing; it’s just that wanting feels slippery. The spark comes, then vanishes before I can hold them.

Part of it, I’ve realized, is the quiet knowledge that wanting doesn’t guarantee having. When the desire swells, there’s always the chance plans will fall through.

People won’t follow through and I’ll be left holding that fragile spark alone.

I have a  childhood friend who constantly proves this—making plans only to flake out last minute or cancel for someone else.

To keep me as the back burner friend to use when they are experiencing their lows or their spark is waning.

After a while, when you protect yourself from disappointment, simply wanting becomes an afterthought.

To most people this is a sad and dull way to live– and I’d have to agree at times. But to those people I want to ask:

When your colorful world has been trampled on again and again, is it really your sole responsibility to keep your colors bright? Or do you build yourself a city of fog just to feel safe?

“When your colors keep getting crushed, do you keep painting — or retreat into fog?”

-Quill

Naming the Fog

“Noticing the fog and naming it feels like a start.”

Maybe that’s what I’ve done– built a quiet city of fog to soften the noise and shield the parts of me that still ache. I don’t find it all bad here. The gray keeps the world at arm’s length while I catch my breath. 

Allowing me time to mend, to wonder, to simply drift. Sometimes I feel a tiny pull, the thinnest thread of wanting– not enough to actually break through the haze, just enough to remind me there is still color beyond it. 

I don’t know when I’ll step out or what it would take. Maybe not soon or all at once. But for now, noticing the fog and naming it feels like a start. 

Curiosity, even quiet and hesitant, might be the first small crack where color bleeds through. 

If any of this feels familiar, I’d love to hear how you’ve learned to live with your fog — or if, like me, you’re simply noticing it for now