What Does It All Mean?

I ask it in the silence,

in the dark hours when the world feels too heavy,

too sharp,

too empty.

What does it all mean?

The tears, the laughter,

the fleeting joys,

the losses that carve holes so deep

you wonder if you’ll ever fill them again.

Is there a reason for the war inside me?

For the nights I drowned my own voice?

For the moments I almost gave up,

but didn’t?

Maybe meaning isn’t a grand design

etched in stone above us.

Maybe it’s found in smaller things —

the hand that steadies you,

the breath you didn’t think you’d take,

the sunrise that still arrives

even when you don’t feel ready for it.

What does it all mean?

I don’t know.

But maybe it means this:

that even in the fog,

we keep moving,

we keep searching,

we keep choosing to stay.

And maybe the meaning is not something we find,

but something we become.