The Stillness Holds Me
There is a weight in this room, pressed between the floorboards and the bones,
A fog that never lifts, wrapping the mind in yesterday’s skin—Unmoving, unhurried,
a quiet so deep it seems older than stone,
Each breath more ritual than need,
a slow surrender that lets nothing in.The hours settle into layers,
soft and suffocating, blanketing the light,
And in this cocoon, ambition crumbles into dust too tired to rise or fight.
The world outside moves in rhythms I barely recall,
A dance of struggle and fire and want I once believed belonged to me,
But here, time folds inward—nights dissolve without memory, days stack,
walls crawl—Each passing second less a mark, more a blank,
more a ghost that cannot flee.I am watched by clocks that never scold,
by shadows that slip without trace,
By windows streaked in dreams I once hunted, now vanished without disgrace.
Every comfort breeds another chain, forged in the sigh of surrender,
The mind tells itself stories of rest, of safety, of patience,
But in truth it is only a thick syrup, numbing the hunger to renderAnything sharp,
alive, or dangerous—this is peace at its ugliest station.Hands idle,
muscles grown mute, eyes glazed by the unchanging blur,
Apathy’s kiss so gentle it feels like kindness, lulling each synapse, demure.
No battle is fought here—no scars, no cries, no remembered defeat—Just the slow,
silver leeching of will, of warmth, of color,
of form.Ambition peels away like paint on an old radiator in summer heat,Purpose quietly dissolves in the puddles where boredom
is born.And the stillness is absolute,
a gravity with no desire to break,It asks nothing, it promises nothing,
it only takes.
Even the mind resists the urge to invent a reason for the stall,
Preferring the velvet emptiness to the struggle of building anew,
Every half-formed dream, every nearly-brave thought, all let fallInto the blank,
the unmade, the easy, the barely true.Desire is a relic,
effort a word left behind by a louder generation,
Here in the arms of sloth, hope is replaced by patient resignation.
The silence is sacred, but it is the kind of sanctity that embalms,
Preserving the corpse of what might have been beneath sheets of delay,
Soft hands that stroke hair, that hush the alarms,
That wrap apathy around the bones,
cradle the will until it decays.No passions disturb these padded hours,
no drive to break the lock,
Only the gentle, steady tide of sleep, rocking, never a shock.
I know the world is burning somewhere, I sense it faint through the walls,
A flash of heat, a distant siren, a life lived sharper than mine—But here I lie,
unmoved, content to let the curtain fall,
Content to watch tomorrow die one dull hour at a time.Dreams rot in this womb,
too heavy to deliver, too soft to scream,
And every day I choose the lull, choose the silence, choose the slow-gone dream.
Years pass with no mark, no sudden gasp, no moment that truly shone,Just a blur,
a hush, a hollow haze, a forgetting so completeThat even regret falls silent,
drifts away, leaving only the droneOf a life not lived, not lost, simply unfinished,
obsolete.Let the world rage and burn,
let love rise and ambition crash—I have learned the secret of stillness,
and it holds me fast.
And when memory comes to count the cost—There will be no hero’s fall,
no prideful boast,Only echoes of what might have been,A
life embalmed in comfort,Lost in the sloth I let sink in.