Through the Fog

Tag: peace

  • I Feel Like Something’s Wrong When I’m Not Depressed

    I don’t know when it happened—

    when the heaviness became

    its own kind of home.

    When the silence tasted strange

    unless it carried a little ache.

    Some days I wake up light,

    breathing easier,

    and instead of feeling grateful,

    I flinch.

    Like joy is a trick

    and peace is just the calm

    before the next collapse.

    I look around for the darkness

    the way other people look for keys—

    worried I misplaced it,

    worried its absence means

    something worse is coming.

    It’s messed up, I know.

    But when you live in the storm long enough,

    sunlight feels like danger.

    Happiness feels like a costume

    you’re afraid to wear too long,

    in case someone rips it off

    and calls you out for pretending.

    I’m trying to relearn myself,

    trying to believe that ease

    doesn’t mean I’m slipping,

    that softness isn’t a symptom,

    that feeling okay

    doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

    But truth is—

    sometimes I only feel real

    when I’m hurting.

    And I’m still figuring out

    how to change that

    without losing who I am.

  • Voice of Addiction

    You whisper like you know me,

    like you built me,

    like I wouldn’t be standing here

    without you holding my hand.

    But listen closely—

    I’m not yours anymore.

    I hear you in the quiet moments,

    trying to slip back into my breath,

    telling me you can make it easier,

    that you can take the weight off my shoulders.

    But you never carried anything

    except pieces of me

    you stole.

    You say you miss me.

    I don’t doubt it.

    Parasites always miss the body

    they drain.

    You say I was better with you—

    no, I was quieter,

    numb,

    half-alive,

    a shadow of the person

    you were killing slowly.

    You were never comfort.

    You were a cage.

    So let me be clear:

    I don’t need you

    to feel less.

    I’m learning how to feel

    and still survive.

    You can whisper all you want—

    but I’m done mistaking your voice

    for my own.

    This time,

    I walk away.

    This time,

    I choose breath over burning,

    light over lies,

    life over you.

  • The Comfort of My Mother

    I miss the comfort of my mother,

    the way her voice could quiet storms

    that the world never even saw coming.

    There was a time

    when her hands could fix anything—

    a scraped knee,

    a cracked heart,

    a day that felt too heavy to hold.

    Now the world presses harder,

    and I’m older,

    and she can’t protect me from it.

    But I still find myself wishing

    I could crawl back into that kind of safety—

    the kind that didn’t ask for explanations,

    that didn’t measure strength

    by how much pain you could hide.

    I miss her voice,

    the way she said my name

    like it was still small enough to save.

    I miss the comfort

    of knowing I didn’t have to carry everything.

    The weight of the world is lonely.

    And sometimes,

    all I want

    is my mother’s arms

    and a reason

    not to be brave for a little while.

  • The Promise of Fall

    Photo Credit: Marko Blažević

    And when the leaves begin to change,

    I’ll be there

    by the time they start to fall.

    Not early, not late—

    just in that quiet moment

    when the world exhales,

    and summer finally lets go.

    I’ll return like a ghost

    you almost stopped waiting for,

    carrying the kind of silence

    that only comes from distance.

    Maybe you won’t recognize me at first—

    grief weathers people

    the way autumn weathers trees.

    But I’ll know you,

    by the way your eyes still soften

    when the wind carries something familiar.

    And even if nothing is the same,

    even if the cold moves in too fast,

    I’ll still keep my promise—

    to show up

    right before everything fades.

  • Just Give Me Peace

    I don’t ask for happiness anymore. Happiness feels like a myth, a story people tell themselves so they can keep moving. I don’t ask for love, either — love is fragile, it breaks too easily, and I am too sharp, too heavy, too much for it to survive in my hands.

    All I want is peace.

    Not the kind people romanticize, with sunsets and calm oceans. I mean silence. Stillness. An end to the noise inside my head that never shuts off. The relentless thoughts that claw and whisper, the memories that bleed through the cracks, the storms that rise without warning and tear me apart from the inside out.

    I don’t need light. I don’t need joy. I don’t even need tomorrow.

    Just give me peace.

    Because I am tired. Tired of carrying the weight of a body that refuses to rest. Tired of dragging myself through days that feel more like punishment than life. Tired of holding on when I don’t even know what I’m holding on for.

    I imagine peace as a release. A surrender. Not victory, not defeat — just quiet. No more questions. No more wounds reopening. No more storms.

    And maybe that’s the cruelest part: the world tells me peace is found by fighting harder, healing more, pushing through. But what if peace doesn’t come from effort at all? What if peace is only possible when there is nothing left to fight?

    All I know is this: I don’t crave anything except the absence of this endless war inside me.

    Just give me peace.