The title came like a half-lost word.
I was trying to remember the name of a well —
but what kept rising was dwell.
Again and again, it surfaced.
In speech, in thought, in the quiet between.
Dwell —
to stay too long.
To linger in places that no longer hold you.
To sink beneath the surface of things.
To ache where you live.
And then: undwell.
A word that doesn’t quite exist, but somehow already knew me.
It felt like falling out of my life sideways.
Not vanishing — just… loosening.
Unfastening.
The graveyard became a place I could do that.
Slip out of linear time.
Stand still while everything else rushed on.
A threshold place.
Not death, not life —
but something in between, soft and strange and real.
To undwell is to let go of needing to function.
To disappear gently.
To feel the world blur and still choose to stay a while,
right there, in the in-between.
I was trying to remember the name of a well —
but what kept rising was dwell.
Again and again, it surfaced.
In speech, in thought, in the quiet between.
Dwell —
to stay too long.
To linger in places that no longer hold you.
To sink beneath the surface of things.
To ache where you live.
And then: undwell.
A word that doesn’t quite exist, but somehow already knew me.
It felt like falling out of my life sideways.
Not vanishing — just… loosening.
Unfastening.
The graveyard became a place I could do that.
Slip out of linear time.
Stand still while everything else rushed on.
A threshold place.
Not death, not life —
but something in between, soft and strange and real.
To undwell is to let go of needing to function.
To disappear gently.
To feel the world blur and still choose to stay a while,
right there, in the in-between.
