farkleberry

Not sadness. Not happiness. Just the quiet hum of something in between—a breath held too long, a chord left unresolved.

Tonight, the darkness doesn’t crush me; it cradles me. And in its arms, I feel it—the absence. Not sharp, not screaming, but there, like the ghost warmth of a hand no longer held. I miss them. All of them. The ones who fill my home with noise, the ones who live now only in the silence between my ribs.

And the tears? Let them come. Let them be proof—not of weakness, but of a heart that still beats, still breaks, still dares to love what it cannot keep.

Maybe strength isn’t about standing unmoved. Maybe it’s about letting the storm wash through you and still recognizing your own reflection when it passes.

I do not know what to call this feeling. It is not sorrow, nor is it joy—just a quiet, restless hum between the two. A hollowed-out space where emotions linger but refuse to take shape.

Tonight, the air is thick with longing. Not a sharp, piercing ache, but a dull, persistent whisper: I miss you. I miss all of you. The ones who fill the rooms of my home with warmth, the ones who exist now only in memory. Their absence is a quiet tide, pulling at the edges of me.

And so I wonder—can tears be both an admission and a defiance? Can I let them fall, salt-streaked and honest, and still call myself strong? Perhaps strength is not in the absence of trembling, but in the courage to tremble and stand.

This night will pass. The weight will shift. But for now, I let myself feel it all—the missing, the almost-sadness, the almost-joy—and in that surrender, maybe I find something like peace.

People ask for advice all the time. They go to their friends for it. They talk to virtual strangers at the gym. They pay doctors, shrinks, therapists and psychics for advice. But very few people actually take the advice unless that advice happens to be something they are already inclined to do.”

Dream Eyes by Jayne Ann Krentz