It wasn’t a hard day, just a scattered one.
And somehow that was worse.
Some days it’s not that I can’t think. It’s that I can’t finish a single thought.
There’s a special kind of guilt that comes from taking time off, not because anyone told you not to, but because you’ve internalised the expectation to always be on.
There’s no background thread clearing out the detritus. No automatic sweep of bad data. No graceful unloading of context after a task is done.
There are days I react to things that aren’t happening anymore.
There are moments when I know something is over, but I don’t feel it yet.
Every few months, I declare war on the inbox.
