Even my coffee tastes flat

This morning, I woke up wrapped in gray.

Not darkness — just that dull, colorless fog that drapes itself across my thoughts. Nothing feels quite right or wrong, just muted. Blah.

Even the coffee tastes like static. The sunlight barely touches me. My body moves, but my spirit lags behind, watching from a distance. There’s no rush of inspiration, no surge of purpose — only the soft hum of going through the motions.

It’s not sadness exactly. It’s more like the quiet between breaths, the pause between endings and beginnings. The crow within me — that wild, watchful part that usually soars through storms — feels grounded, wings heavy, feathers damp with apathy. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to fly. It’s just that for now, the sky feels too far away.

The flame, too, flickers low. Not extinguished, just small — a single ember buried beneath the ashes of fatigue and routine. I used to panic when the light dimmed, as if my worth depended on my fire staying bright. But now I know: even embers still burn. Even in the quiet, there’s life waiting to rise again.

So I let the crow rest. I let the flame breathe.

I stop demanding that motivation appear like magic.

Instead, I make room for stillness — the kind that heals instead of hides.

Maybe today is about the simplest things:

a shower that rinses away yesterday’s noise,

a deep breath that reminds me I’m still here,

a cup of tea sipped slowly, like a peace offering to myself.

I used to think I had to earn my light.

Now I know it’s still mine, even when it’s dim.

The crow will fly again when the wind shifts.

The flame will rise when it’s ready.

And until then, I will honor the in-between —

the gray days that ask nothing of me but presence.

Because even the quiet carries healing.

Even the dull days are sacred.