The Shape of Nothing in Particular
Nothing in particular drifts in,
like a feather that forgot where it was going.
It lands softly—
on a half-empty cup,
on a half-finished thought,
on a morning that doesn’t mind being slow.
You don’t chase it.
You just let it sit there,
a quiet companion
with no plans to be anything more.
The world hums outside—
cars whispering on wet pavement,
a bird rehearsing the same song again and again
because repetition, too, is a kind of comfort.
You breathe.
And for once, breathing feels like enough.
There’s no grand message here,
no mountain to climb,
no secret door waiting to be opened.
Just the soft thud of a heart
keeping time with the quiet.
The clock ticks,
but not in a hurry.
The light shifts,
but without ambition.
You catch yourself smiling
at nothing in particular—
and isn’t that something?
Maybe this is where life hides
when we’re too busy searching for it.
Between the notes of a half-remembered song,
between the inhale and the exhale,
between what we meant to do
and what we actually did.
Maybe “nothing” isn’t empty at all.
Maybe it’s a room
where all the things that matter
finally get a chance to stretch their legs—
quiet joy, small wonder,
a little peace that doesn’t ask to be earned.
So you stay there a while,
unrushed, unbothered,
watching dust dance in the sunlight
like tiny galaxies pretending to be ordinary.
And when someone asks what you’re doing,
you can tell them, honestly—
nothing in particular.
But what you mean is:
everything you needed.
—