|| Riddles of a Tired Soul ||

What are these eyes that carry the weight of dusk?
Why do they search for a pillow
as if it were a small, quiet country
where wars of the day cannot follow?

Why does a blanket feel like an old friend—
one that knows the language of silence,
one that hums softly,
tucking a restless heart into stillness?

And yet—
why do my feet keep running
when my soul only asks to sit?

Is this what life becomes—
a road where we hold hands with love
yet somehow lose hold of ourselves?

For I have a home, yes—
a home in the arms of a man
whose love stands steady like a lighthouse.
But tell me—
can love also quiet the storms inside
when the tide of days refuses to slow?

Why does the world grow louder—
circles widening, laughter echoing through crowded rooms—
while somewhere inside
a small room of solitude gathers dust?

Where did the pause go?
Where did the evenings go
when the moon and I shared a longer conversation?

Is grief not also a form of gratitude—
a quiet ritual
where we bow to everything we lost
and everything it quietly built within us?

Tell me—
when the world begins to spin faster than your breath,
where do you go to find yourself again?

Is it wrong to crave stillness?
To sit by a window and do nothing
until the world slowly dissolves
into a soft blur of meaninglessness?

And if life is a river that never pauses,
how does one rest in its current
without drowning in its rush?

How long can the body pull
when the soul only whispers,
“Enough for today.”

And in all this running—
this loving, this living, this becoming—

When, dear life,
do we finally
catch up
with ourselves? 

- Moonshines