When the world goes quiet,
and the body surrenders.
where do you go?

In sleep,
we fall through time
without falling,
touch faces
we’ve never seen,
grieve things
that never happened.
And still,
we wake up aching.
Why?

What if dreams
aren’t just brain static or broken memories,
but something sacred,
an ancient language
your soul still remembers
even if you don’t?

You float.
You fall.
You fly.
You meet people
you’ve never seen,
but somehow you know them.
Places you’ve never been
feel more like home
than the house you wake up in.

What if every dream
is a message,
a mirror,
a map.
but only if you’re still enough
to listen?

What if they mean something?
What if they mean everything?

And maybe
we’ll never know for sure.
But still,
each night,
we close our eyes
and enter that strange, sacred place
as if we’re trying
to remember
something the daylight
won’t let us see.

Some say your soul leaves your body at night
and wanders.
Touches other worlds.
Crosses timelines.
Meets souls it once knew
before the name you wear now
existed.

Maybe,
what we call “sleep”
is the real awakening.

And waking up?
That’s the dream
we keep returning to.

The soul
is not skin,
not bone,
not something you can point to
or name.

It’s the ache behind the smile,
the tremble before truth,
the way your chest tightens
when a song knows you
better than you know yourself.

It’s memory,
tied in threads of scent and sound.
It’s grief that lingers
in a room long emptied,
and love
you still feel
for someone long gone.

It carries every version
of who you’ve been.
the child who dreamed,
the teen who feared,
the adult still learning
what it means to be whole.

The soul bruises quietly.
It celebrates in silence.
It’s heavy with things
no one else sees,
but it still shines
in your laugh,
in your quiet kindness,
in the way you keep going.

And maybe that’s the soul’s secret:
it can break
and still glow
like something holy
trying
to make this life
mean something.

Why do we dissect the stars
instead of letting them simply shine?
Why must every silence
be filled with a reason,
every feeling
pinned down and labeled,
like butterflies behind glass?

Why do we fear the unknown
more than we fear missing its beauty?
Why do we tug at mystery
like it owes us an answer?

Some things
are meant to be felt,
not solved.
A laugh that comes too fast.
A dream that makes no sense.
A person you just click with
no explanation,
just connection.

We weren’t built
to hold all the answers.
We were built
to stand in awe.
To wonder.
To feel.
To sit in the quiet
and let it speak without words.

Maybe the point
isn’t to understand everything,
but to trust
that not everything needs to be understood
to be real.

Some truths
don’t live in facts.
they live in the way your chest rises
at the sight of the ocean,
or how someone’s voice
can feel like home
even when it says nothing at all.

Let go of needing to know.
And you might finally see.