Through the Fog

Tag: meaning

  • The Darkness

    The darkness is not just the absence of light.

    It is weight.

    It is silence with teeth.

    It is the place where time loses its shape

    and thoughts echo too loudly.

    I have known its language.

    The way it whispers,

    convincing me I am alone,

    convincing me I am unworthy,

    convincing me there is no way forward.

    But the darkness is not only destruction.

    It is also a mirror.

    In its depths, I see the parts of myself

    I tried to bury,

    the shadows I tried to outrun.

    It forces me to face what daylight lets me hide.

    Some nights, it feels endless.

    Other nights, I catch the faintest glow —

    a reminder that even the smallest flame

    can hold its ground

    against all that emptiness.

    The darkness teaches me this:

    it is not here to kill me,

    but to show me how badly I want to live.

  • A Thousand Quiet Fractures

    No one tells you that you could break your own heart.

    I always thought heartbreak would come from someone else—

    a lover walking away, a betrayal, a silence too loud to bear.

    But I learned it was me.

    It was the choices I didn’t make,

    the dreams I abandoned out of fear,

    the way I turned my back on the parts of myself

    that needed care the most.

    I broke my heart every time I settled,

    every time I swallowed my truth

    because I thought it was too heavy for others to carry.

    I broke it when I believed the voices

    that said I wasn’t enough,

    when I convinced myself

    that survival was the same thing as living.

    There was no great explosion, no dramatic ending—

    just small fractures,

    a thousand tiny betrayals of my own making.

    And by the time I looked down,

    I was standing in the wreckage,

    cut on the glass I’d been dropping for years.

    But here’s the part no one tells you either:

    the same hands that break it

    can learn how to hold it,

    to piece it back together,

    to love what’s left.

    And maybe that’s the hardest lesson of all—

    that healing doesn’t come from someone else,

    it begins the moment you stop breaking

    your own heart.

  • Unfamiliar Face

    I wake up in the morning and I look in the mirror to try and find out where I belong.

    Some days I recognize the face staring back; other days it feels like a stranger is living in my skin.

    I trace the lines under my eyes, the curve of my mouth,

    as if the map of my belonging might be written somewhere there.

    But mirrors don’t answer questions.

    They only echo them.

    And the longer I stare, the louder the silence becomes.

    Where do I belong?

    In the history I can’t rewrite?

    In the dreams I’m still too afraid to chase?

    In the body I’m learning to forgive?

    Some mornings I leave the mirror without an answer.

    Other mornings, I carry the question like a stone in my pocket—

    not an answer, but a reminder

    that belonging is less about where you are,

    and more about learning how to stand in your own reflection

    without turning away.

  • I Am Not of This World

    I walk among the kingdoms of men,

    but my heart does not dwell here.

    The stones beneath my feet are foreign,

    the riches of this earth turn to dust in my hands.

    They build towers of pride,

    they chase after shadows,

    but I hunger for what does not fade.

    I am a sojourner,

    a pilgrim in a land not my own,

    searching for a city whose foundations

    are not built by human hands.

    The world calls me to bow,

    to trade truth for comfort,

    but I cannot kneel to what perishes.

    There is a fire within me not lit by this earth,

    a voice that whispers of home,

    a kingdom unseen yet nearer than breath.

    I am not of this world—

    though I walk its valleys,

    though I taste its sorrows,

    though its storms beat against me.

    I belong to another place,

    and until I see it with my eyes,

    I will live as a stranger here,

    with my heart set on what is eternal.

  • What Do You Want in Life?

    It’s the kind of question that stops me in my tracks.

    What do I want in life?

    For years, I didn’t know how to answer it. I thought the right response was supposed to be about success — the career, the house, the milestones people nod approvingly at. But none of that ever felt like the full truth.

    What I want in life is simpler, and harder.

    I want peace. Not the kind that means nothing happens, but the kind that lives inside me — steady, quiet, a place I can return to no matter what storms rage around me.

    I want connection. The real kind. The kind where I can sit in silence with someone and still feel understood. Where masks fall away, where I don’t have to earn my worth to be allowed to stay.

    I want honesty with myself. To stop hiding, numbing, or pretending I don’t feel what I feel. To live without apology for being human, even when that means being messy, tender, uncertain.

    I want to create. To write words that outlast me. To turn my pain into something that might reach someone else who feels alone in theirs. To leave behind a trail of truth, however small, that someone else can follow back to themselves.

    And maybe, most of all — I want to feel alive. Not just survive my days, not just check boxes, not just endure. I want to notice. To breathe deeply. To laugh without looking over my shoulder. To belong to this life while I’m still here.

    What do I want in life?

    To heal. To write. To love.

    And to keep learning how to stay.