Ever been so far inside your head that the world outside starts to fade like a half-erased chalkboard? Not your typical “oops, zoned out in class” kind of thing. No. I mean completely gone. Like someone slowly turned the volume of life down to zero and all that’s left is the echo of your own thoughts. And even they don’t feel like yours anymore. They feel smarter. Wiser. Too heavy to have come from you. Almost like your brain borrowed them from a library that only opens when your soul’s on fire.
It starts small. A blink too long. A breath too deep. You’re staring at a wall, but it’s no longer a wall. It’s a movie screen for your mind to project the chaos it’s been hiding. Your eyes are open, but they’ve stopped seeing. People are talking. Life is moving. But you? You’re stuck in a thought that doesn’t have edges. It goes on and on. And you fall into it like Alice, except there’s no Wonderland. Just the truth. And the truth is… terrifyingly beautiful.
Because in that moment, you’re not really “you.” You’re something else. Like a ghost watching its own heartbeat. Everything becomes blurry. You’re aware of your breathing, your pulse, even the weight of your eyelids. But you’re also not. It’s like your soul steps back to observe you being human. Like, “Oh look, there it goes again,overthinking its way into another existential crisis.”
Sarcastic, yes. But also accurate.
The scary part? You kind of love it. That silence. That clarity. The way your mind suddenly becomes a philosopher, a poet, a mad scientist. You’re writing essays in your head that could win Pulitzers, solving emotional algebra like some misunderstood genius. You think things like, “What if our thoughts are realer than our lives?” or “Maybe the blur isn’t a glitch. Maybe it’s the truth peeking through the lie we call reality.”
I mean, what if we are the blur?
What if our “real” lives are just the dream our subconscious has when it's bored of being too aware? What if this zoning out this full, deep, all-consuming drift is the body’s way of syncing with something divine? Not like angels and halos divine. I’m talking about the kind of divine that smells like burnt coffee and heartbreak. The real stuff.
It’s weird, isn’t it? How something so tragic can feel so good. Like crying in the shower or listening to a sad song on repeat just to feel something. That zone is your personal storm. Messy, quiet, and wildly alive. It’s your mind’s rebellion against the regular.A place where time stretches, reality glitches, and you,just for a moment,become infinite.
And then, snap.
You’re back.
Someone calls your name. The wall becomes a wall again. The thoughts scatter like pigeons on a sidewalk. You smile. Awkwardly. Pretend like nothing happened. But inside? Oh, inside you just had a full-on philosophical meltdown that no one will ever know about. Not because you don’t want to share it. But because you can’t. There aren’t enough words for it. Not in any language.
So you just go on. Blending in. Laughing at jokes. Answering texts. But now with a secret. You’ve seen the blur. Danced with it. Got lost in it. And even though it left you a little broken, a little tired… you kind of hope it happens again.
Because out there, in that quiet chaos, you felt something real.
And real is rare.
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