Jan 23
There is a particular sorrow in retreating to sleep, not for rest, but to escape the sound of your own thoughts. In that fragile fall into oblivion, you feel your heart splinter, a quiet and deliberate crack that leaves you breathless. It is here, in this liminal space, that the weight of solitude presses hardest. Not loneliness—no, not the simple absence of others—but solitude, profound and unyielding, like a shadow draped over your soul.
You sit alone in the muted glow of your room, a cup of tea nestled in your hands, the steam spiralling upward like an unanswered prayer. The silence is absolute, punctuated only by the murmur of your own heartache. The world beyond these walls feels impossibly distant, as though you have been exiled to some forgotten corner of existence. And you start to wonder how much longer?
How much longer until you discover a space where you truly belong, a space where your soul does not feel like a stranger in its own skin? How much longer until this invisible prison dissolves, and you are free to breathe without the weight of longing pressing against your chest? You give love so easily, so earnestly, pouring it out like an endless river. Yet, it returns to you in drips and drops, fleeting and flimsy, never enough to quench the ache.
Is this my purpose? To exist in this silence, accompanied only by the echo of my own thoughts? Am I destined to feel this hollow ache forever, to carry this heaviness until the end?And if this is the truth—if this ache is eternal—then I beg, let it cease.
Perhaps in absence, I will find what eludes me in presence. Perhaps only then will the world take notice of the space I leave behind. Perhaps only then will the love I long for bloom in the hearts of those who once overlooked me.But what a bitter irony, to be loved only in your absence, when you can no longer feel its warmth.
And so, I sit in this endless night, questioning the shape of my existence, wondering if I will ever find the belonging I so desperately seek. The tea grows cold, but the ache stays warm, curling itself around me like an unwelcome lover. How much longer? How much longer must I carry this ache before the world answers me?
You sit alone in the muted glow of your room, a cup of tea nestled in your hands, the steam spiralling upward like an unanswered prayer. The silence is absolute, punctuated only by the murmur of your own heartache. The world beyond these walls feels impossibly distant, as though you have been exiled to some forgotten corner of existence. And you start to wonder how much longer?
How much longer until you discover a space where you truly belong, a space where your soul does not feel like a stranger in its own skin? How much longer until this invisible prison dissolves, and you are free to breathe without the weight of longing pressing against your chest? You give love so easily, so earnestly, pouring it out like an endless river. Yet, it returns to you in drips and drops, fleeting and flimsy, never enough to quench the ache.
Is this my purpose? To exist in this silence, accompanied only by the echo of my own thoughts? Am I destined to feel this hollow ache forever, to carry this heaviness until the end?And if this is the truth—if this ache is eternal—then I beg, let it cease.
Perhaps in absence, I will find what eludes me in presence. Perhaps only then will the world take notice of the space I leave behind. Perhaps only then will the love I long for bloom in the hearts of those who once overlooked me.But what a bitter irony, to be loved only in your absence, when you can no longer feel its warmth.
And so, I sit in this endless night, questioning the shape of my existence, wondering if I will ever find the belonging I so desperately seek. The tea grows cold, but the ache stays warm, curling itself around me like an unwelcome lover. How much longer? How much longer must I carry this ache before the world answers me?
