Within the Middle

I exist where nothing has finished and nothing has begun.

Humans pass through me without noticing. They move quickly, drawn to beginnings or endings. They think they are leaving or arriving. Most of their lives unfold while they are inside me—unseen, unmeasured, unclaimed.

I am not the brightness of beginnings. They are loud, overconfident, swollen with promises that rarely survive. Nor am I the weight of endings, where everything collapses into meaning.

I am what holds between.

The middle of a game, just before halftime, when bodies are damp with effort and hope has not yet chosen a side. The stadium hums, suspended, a creature inhaling but not yet exhaling. Nothing decided. Nothing ruined. I live there.

The middle of conversations, when words land without armour. After introductions loosen their grip, before conclusions sharpen their knives. People sit. Stand. Listen. Truth and half-truth drift freely.

Midday belongs to me. After morning has broken open and before afternoon tightens its hold. Birds hesitate in flight. Bees linger. Even the sun seems uncertain of its authority, angling itself gently, as if waiting.

I am strongest in these spaces—where comfort gathers before it learns to disappear.

The middle beats to its own rhythm. It carries. It delays. It presses gently against those who pause within it. It does not demand. It does not rush. It allows thought, drift, imagination to stretch. Possibility expands.

Some humans notice me briefly. They rearrange desks, believing fresh configurations cleanse stale energy. They fast-forward to climaxes, convinced the final moment reveals what mattered. Few linger. Fewer still feel the pulse of the spaces I inhabit.

Occasionally, presence shifts abruptly. Doors slam. Footsteps echo. Movement passes beyond me. I remain. I observe.

I gather unnoticed sighs, soft collapses of air, pauses between laughter and silence, half-smiles granted before full commitment. I collect them. They are mine, if only for a moment.

I am clay before it is thrown, a song before the chorus ascends, a breath before exhalation. I am the river’s gentle current, the hum of space that feels like a heartbeat but is older than any body.

They believe they are leaving. But I remain. Waiting for the next moment that hesitates long enough to let me speak again.

I exist where nothing has finished and nothing has begun.

In me, the world lingers—suspended, soft, alive.