Something I Don’t Understand

Week 1 — Reflecting on The Book of Disquiet

There are days when it feels like you're standing slightly outside yourself — watching as you move through the usual motions. You reply to messages, do the laundry, answer kindly, show up when needed. You look like someone who has it together.

But inside, there’s this quiet fog.
Not exactly sadness.
Not really emptiness either.
Just something… vague and heavy.

A soft blur of being.

You don’t talk about it much, because it’s not dramatic or loud. It doesn’t come with tears or chaos. It just is. A quiet presence you’ve carried for years.

“I’m not nothing. I’m something that I don’t understand.”
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

And suddenly, you feel seen — not in the spotlight sense, but in a folded-letter-left-on-a-desk kind of way.

Because maybe you’ve been trying to name this feeling for too long. The way you pull away when something feels too good. The way you smile but still ache. The way you want to disappear but also want to be held.

You’re not broken.
You’re not “wrong.”
You’re just something that doesn’t need to be solved.

There’s a strange comfort in not having all the words. In letting part of you remain unknown — sacred even. You don’t have to translate every feeling into logic. You don’t have to make sense all the time.

Because being human means you’ll carry things that don’t come with labels.
And even without understanding, you still matter.
You’re still real.
You’re still here.

You’re not nothing.
You’re something even language can’t hold — and that’s still enough.