Time doesn’t stop after your life falls apart, even though it feels like it should. It keeps moving, steady and indifferent as it drags you along with it whether you’re ready to keep going or not.
The days after Christmas blur together in a way that feels both too fast and painfully slow, like I’m caught somewhere between trying to outrun everything and being stuck in it at the same time.
Work doesn’t care that my relationship imploded.
Bills don’t care that I can barely think straight.
New York doesn’t care about anything except keeping up.
And so, I do. I get up. I go to work. I come home. I sleep. Then, it all repeats again in a cruel cycle. Over and over until it becomes something I can hide inside. Something that’s safe and comfortable, where there’s no room for thinking too hard
