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?

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