It feels like you are living in two worlds.
In one, the lights are on.
Voices are loud, laughter is easy,
and you know how to play your part.
You smile at the right moments,
say the right things,
exist just enough to not be questioned.
But the other world begins
the moment your eyes close.
There, everything echoes.
Every thought you postponed
waits for you in the dark—
not as words,
but as weight.
It gathers quietly behind your ribs,
spills into your chest,
and rises into your eyes
until it has nowhere left to go
but down your face.
And you lie there,
tired enough to sleep,
but too full to rest.
It’s strange, isn’t it?
How you can still laugh at a joke,
still feel something light for a second—
and yet carry a heaviness
that never really leaves.
Like holding water in your hands:
for a moment, it looks calm,
but it is always slipping through,
always disappearing,
no matter how tightly you hold on.
And then there’s this quiet ache—
not just to escape a place,
but to escape the version of yourself
that feels trapped inside it.
To be somewhere
where you don’t have to translate your feelings
into something acceptable.
Where your silence isn’t questioned,
and your truth doesn’t feel like a burden.
A place where you can exist
without editing yourself.
But here’s the part no one tells you:
You are not falling apart.
You are “unfolding in a space
that has never taught you
how to hold yourself gently.”
So everything comes out at night—
not to break you,
but because it finally can.
And maybe, for now,
being a “free soul”
doesn’t mean running far away.
Maybe it starts here—
in the quiet,
in the honesty,
in letting the tears fall
without turning them into something to hide.
Not freedom from your life—
but freedom from pretending
you’re not hurting inside it.
