Lately, I’ve noticed a recurring theme with me–something I don’t talk about very often.

My interest comes and goes, kinda like a wave in the ocean. 

It’s not dramatic. It’s not even because I’m overwhelmed or burned out. Honestly there isn’t a big reason behind it. Nothing was truly wrong. 

It’s just that there are times where the things I care deeply about one minute feel distant the next. 

Writing. This blog. My novel. Ideas I was once so excited to share suddenly feel quiet, as if they’d rather not be shared. Or at least not by this version of me. 

And as strange as it sounds, I can’t bring myself to be upset about it. 

I’m not panicking. Or trying to force the feeling to flee. I’m just now deciding that this shift within me doesn’t always disappear with a crash.

“Sometimes it just… vanishes like smoke”

The most confusing part is how normal it feels. 

There’s not some big emotional dip. No spiraling or hesitation on anything. It’s not even a feeling of failure–it’s simply, an uninterested existence. 

Like muting the TV but still having the images flashing on screen. 

I’ll open my novel and stare at the words. Twenty-two chapters of something consistently being worked on. And instead of pride or even frustration, all that’s there is neutrality.

The blog is in this similar orbit. It’s still mine. I still care for it in theory.

But that urgency to post, mold my thoughts into something tangible and worth sharing—just isn’t there in the same way. 

I don’t know if it’s some kind of  sign or if it means anything at all. 

Maybe my interests aren’t supposed to be constantly flowing. 

It could be a seasonal thing and it’s moving the same way everything else in life does–A shift without warning, returning when it’s ready or needed. 

Or maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like when your body decides to pause without asking your brain. 

In a weird way there’s a strange honesty about it. 

I’m not trying to force anything.

I’m not declaring a break.

I’m not even making a dramatic exit. 

I’m just here, with my cat, riding this wave. 

It’s gotten me thinking about how much our lives have changed because of these moments we go through.

Not the big loud life events.

Not turning points.

Just small changes that happen quietly, sometimes before we can even notice them. 

One week everything is important. 

The next it’s not. 

I don’t want to think that it was fake. 

I try to think that maybe the important scale just shifted a bit. 

Right now, I’m letting it move. 

No chasing. 

Not trying to force it back into place. 

Just acknowledging that sometimes interest comes–and goes just as quick. 

That’s the most honest place I’m able to write from today. 

More Soon, 

Quill