11:30 PM and Nothing Moves

I’m bored. And I think I’m supposed to do something in moments like this.

That’s what I’ve been told, at least. My mentor says I should finish that painting—the one I was supposed to complete years ago.

But it doesn’t move me. So I don’t move.

And that’s the part that confuses me, because it’s not like I don’t want things.

I want to write stories. I want to make books, movies, comics. I want to create, constantly.

So where is the drive?

Instead, I sit alone at 11:30 at night, waiting—like something is supposed to click. Like life is supposed to suddenly get more interesting if I just stay here long enough.

I text my friend.

And maybe I like him a little too much.

Not in a clean, simple way either. It’s layered. Complicated. Because I still find him attractive, and sometimes I just want to talk to him, to be around him, to exist in the same space as him because it makes me genuinely happy.

But we have to be… something else.

Like I have to flatten it. Turn it into something safe. Make it feel like we’re just “girlie friends,” even when my body and my thoughts don’t always agree with that version of the story.

And I’m not going to get rid of him. He’s not going to get rid of me.

So I guess I have to learn. And grow. And sit in that in-between without pretending it’s simple.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I think about things like being on a beach with Bad Bunny.

But not really him— not exactly.

It’s more like what he represents.

Benito is easier to want because he’s distant. Because he stands in for something else—reciprocity. Being chosen. Someone wanting me just as clearly as I want them.

And maybe—if I’m being honest—I use that as a place to put feelings that don’t have anywhere else to go.

A safe release.

Because the real situation isn’t clean. It doesn’t resolve itself into something satisfying or defined. It just… exists.

And so I sit here, again, asking myself questions that don’t have answers.

Where would I actually want to be right now? What would feel good in a real, grounded way?

Because I don’t even know anymore.

Some days I just feel numb.

Not sad. Not overwhelmed. Just… nothing. Like I’m waiting for instructions that never come.

I have this idea of who I want to be—someone who holds themselves with high regard, someone who creates, someone who moves.

But then I ask myself:

What do I have to show for it?

And the annoying part is—I actually have a lot.

Work. Ideas. History. Proof that I can do things.

But that painting sitting there, the one I’m “supposed” to finish, doesn’t connect to any of it. It feels like obligation, not desire. And if it doesn’t move me, then I don’t move toward it.

So now I’m stuck wondering—

Is this burnout? Or am I just being lazy?

And if it’s burnout… how long is it supposed to last? Because this doesn’t feel temporary. It’s been here for a while now.

And then there’s this quieter thought that slips in, almost like a contradiction to everything else:

What if I’m allowed to do nothing?

What if today isn’t meant to be productive? What if all I’m supposed to do is sit in the sun, swing on a hammock for three hours, talk to my friends, and let that be enough?

No pressure to create. No pressure to “seize the moment.”

Because that’s what it feels like I’m fighting against too—this constant push to maximize, to turn every moment into something meaningful, something useful.

But what if I’m not behind?

What if I’m just… in a pause?

What if the world is still going to give me what it needs to give me, whether I force it or not?

And then the question that lingers underneath all of it:

Am I stressing for no reason?

Or is this feeling trying to tell me something I haven’t figured out how to hear yet?