Losing Peace, Finding Sarcasm

So much for the piece of peace I typed a minute ago.

This study—unused, over-furnished, and somehow always dusty—has seen more air than ambition in the last two years. And now suddenly, I’m here. Fully seated, semi-motivated, wildly confused. Not about life. Just about what to do next.

Because even a 60-second pause is long enough for anxiety to snap her fingers and cue chaos. I was fine a minute ago. Now I’m internally screaming because the Wi-Fi dipped, my chai got cold, and my metaphorical peace packed up and left the group chat.

Welcome to the glamorous mess of losing peace and finding sarcasm.

My butt? Flattened into IKEA-grade plywood. My thoughts? Dripping like this Bangalore rain—somewhere between poetic and inconvenient. The in-between state of “not suffering, just spiraling” has me craving motion I don’t believe in yet.

Time check.
Rain check.
Bank balance check—
and that’s the joke. A comedy of overthinking starring me and my overactive imagination.

Maybe it’s time to stop shedding inertia on this chair.
Maybe it’s time to write. Or move. Or at least pretend to.

Because somewhere between boredom, booted ankles, and broken peace, I’m finding sarcasm again.

And honestly? That feels like progress.