why are we like this ?
why are we like this? oh my god— why are we like this, hearts full yet hands still reaching for something unnamed? why is contentment a shy guest who never stays the night? i have food, a home, people who speak my name— the basics of being human, the foundations they say should be enough— and still my mind wanders off into the dark corners asking, what do you want? what do you really want? what is love to us— a warm place to rest, or another mirror showing us the parts we’re afraid to meet? where am i now, really— in the world, or deep inside myself with the lights turned low? and when the self thins, when the questions echo— have i had ego death, or is it something gentler: the soul shifting, stretching, remembering? and sometimes i wonder— is this just me dodging responsibilities, pulling away from the weight of reality, trying to slip into a softer dream? or is it simply the heart wanting space to breathe?