a room inside me

sometimes the strangest part is that nothing is wrong. i am combing my hair. applying lipstick. preparing for an occasion. sitting with my family while food is passed around and laughter fills the room. and still something inside me tightens.

it arrives without permission. an unnamed pressure. a question without language. why am i here. what am i actually doing. who am i when no one is looking. the urge is not dramatic but it is urgent. i want to run. not away from people but away from the version of myself that keeps performing normalcy.

camus once wrote about the quiet moment when life reveals its absurdity not through tragedy but through repetition. i feel it in these ordinary seconds. when routine becomes unbearable. when familiarity feels like a trap instead of comfort. nothing collapses yet everything feels wrong.

there are times i want sleep not as rest but as erasure. a state with no thoughts no regrets no weight pressing on the chest. i do not want to disappear i want relief. i want the noise inside me to stop interrogating my existence.

i imagine releasing all of it like smoke into a chimney. letting the heaviness rise dissolve disappear. not to be analyzed not to be solved just gone. because carrying it day after day teaches the body exhaustion before it teaches the mind clarity.

i want to grow. not in the way people expect but away from the thoughts that keep accusing me. i want to survive without guilt without constantly asking myself what i did wrong. because i know this feeling is not unique. anyone who has lived honestly has felt this fracture at least once or more.

i want to place this pure part of my heart somewhere safe. somewhere it will not be questioned or corrected by anyone not even by me.  somewhere it can exist without explanation.

i imagine lying on open land where i can see the ravine the sheep moving slowly the sky stretched wide above me. i want to sleep under that sky and wake up when it turns yellow then orange. when morning does not demand anything except breathing.

i want to lie down under the sun where every part of my body can be seen. not watched. not judged. just seen. i want light to touch me without asking permission.

i don’t want to hide my flaws under fabric or excuses. i don’t want to correct my body before allowing it rest. i want every scar every softness every uneven part to breathe.

i want my body to exist without apology. without comparison. without the instinct to cover or explain. i want to feel warmth on skin that has only learned to endure.

lying there i imagine my body remembering something ancient. that it was never meant to be hidden or fixed. only lived in. only carried forward.

i want to let the sun do what it does best. illuminate without cruelty. reveal without commentary. remind me that flaws are not failures. they are evidence of being here.

for once i want my body and my mind to agree. to stop fighting each other. to rest in the same place. under the same sky. breathing without shame.

i want to hear birds before i hear thoughts. i want to lie there with my hair open letting the air move through me as if it knows me. when i open my eyes i want the lighthouse in the distance steady and quiet reminding me that guidance does not have to be loud to be real.

i want to hear stories again. the ones i used to hear as a child the ones that once felt boring and endless. now they feel like shelter. like something slow enough to rest inside.

i want to collect the beautiful things of this world moments, gestures, sounds, silences and place them in a room inside me where nothing is rushed or wasted. a room i can return to when life feels unbearable.

i want to write something so psychologically honest that people who are silently breaking feel less alone. something that reaches those who are wasting their energy surviving lives they have already outgrown. i want them to stop confusing endurance with purpose and take decisions without desperation without apology.

i want people to be known by their names by their work by the truth they choose to live. not by the cages they stayed in too long. i want words to feel like a hand on the back not pushing but reminding you that movement is possible.

there is a hunger in me that feels older than fear. i want to see the world not as escape but as understanding. the smallest places, the most lavish ones. the routines, the rituals the griefs and joys of strangers. i want to learn the language of human hearts.

maybe this unrest is not sickness. maybe it is consciousness refusing sedation. this is not a crisis. it is a reckoning. and writing is the only place where i can let it exist without being corrected.

i want to build a room inside me with love compassion and respect. a place where hate jealousy and ignorance have no space to stay.

a room i can return to when the world feels heavy. quiet. steady. waiting.