I’m not sure when it began, this slow withdrawal from things once loved.

Earlier in life I juggled many pursuits. Martial arts. Cartooning. Landscape painting. Piano. Singing. Writing. Each called to me in its own time, and I followed. Some passions lasted years, others faded like the tide withdrawing from the shore.

And there were things I collected. Fountain pens. Leather satchels. Pochade boxes. Rangefinder cameras and their lenses. They brought pleasure until they didn’t.

Then something changed.

Clutter began to irritate me. Technology, with its endless choices and ceaseless noise, wearied me. Social media, with its hollow affirmations and comment threads spiraling into nothing, drained me.

Bright lights, loud restaurants, and crowded rooms made me restless. I wasn’t agoraphobic, nor on the spectrum. I simply reached a point where I wanted to be free of the world’s excess.

I longed for simplicity.

Retirement helped.

Twenty-six years in law enforcement, the last ten as chief of police, had taken their toll. Meetings. City council nights. Community events. The ceaseless strain of budgets, politics, and responsibility.

I could perform when needed.

I could smile and shake hands, make speeches, work a room, and stay until the folding tables were put away. But beneath it all the introvert in me was exhausted.

So I left five years before my pension would peak. I wanted a creative life.

At first the freedom was exhilarating. We moved to another state, started fresh. I painted, drew cartoons, wrote essays. My work flourished online and the income followed.

But life shifts.

Loved ones died. Small health troubles stole my energy. Interests changed shape.

We sold the large house with its pool and endless upkeep. Found a smaller place with better light, and a view that felt like serenity. I gave away what I didn’t need. Painting gear boxed in the garage. Wardrobe pared down to simplicity.

My world narrowed to books, writing, and the quiet pleasure of a camera in hand.

Even with those I love, I found myself turning away from the endless scroll of social media. I have no interest in who owns what, or who has gone where. I care only for what moves people inwardly, their thoughts, their wonder, their ache. Yet even there, a certain stillness lingers.

What do you do when you lose interest in everything?

I don’t think it’s depression. It feels different. Not sorrow, but a kind of maturity. As if childhood has ended, and I’ve walked out of the woods into a clearing where the air is still and everything waits. I don’t know what comes next.

Only that it feels necessary.

The One They Forgot to Tell

Blog Post Title Two