An informal ledger of things unaccounted for.
Most things pass under the surface without comment.
You walk past them on the way to somewhere more definite. You assume they’re background—harmless static. But sometimes the background is the only part that matters.
Here are a few things I’ve noticed lately:
The small oval of light that appears on my desk every afternoon at 2:15, as if the day is briefly marking me in some way.
A crow that lands on the same stretch of fence at dawn, looking around like it’s checking whether the world still exists.
A stranger’s face right before they decide whether to speak, a moment when everything is undecided.
A hairline crack in the sidewalk that always makes me slow down, though I’m not sure why.
None of this feels urgent, but I keep collecting it anyway. Maybe because it reminds me that time isn’t as smooth as it pretends to be. That the hours are full of these small distortions—quiet evidence that something else is always happening under the obvious story.
It’s not just curiosity. If I’m honest, it’s partly survival. On the days when everything feels flattened into sameness, these details are proof that I’m still paying attention. That I haven’t gone completely numb.
I’m not sure what any of it adds up to. Maybe it isn’t supposed to. But lately, I’ve started to think noticing is its own kind of participation. A way to stay tethered to the world without needing to announce anything.
The surface is a better disguise than it gets credit for. But it doesn’t hold forever if you keep watching.
Longitudes Unclaimed 