Star-Thirsted Mind

I sit alone with thought, as one might face the sea in a wild storm,

watching tide rise and fall as waves stitch themselves into the distant horizon,

looking for reason

a pattern not of answers, but suggestions to what it all means.

My heart, fallen like time-felt dust, fluent in silence,

presses against the sky of night.

There is a pause where nothing waits

but the ache of wanting.

 

But is it wanting at all,

to know that which is there but we cannot see?

Or just a hunger fed on shadows of stories past?

I look inward while minutes skim twilight and ask myself

does longing hold meaning,

or am I chasing fading smoke across empty waters?

Can my wanting soul truly grasp what the mind denies,

or am I tangled in a web of falling false hope?

 

I looked to the constellations, not to find myth,

but for questions never answered by books.

Each sound and syllable of starlight now maps a wound I carry

a place absent and void,

where light has left and only memory dwells.

I have stretched my hand all too often,

running fingers over scar

to reach is to lose the clarity of surface.

 

Yet, does losing clarity mean losing truth?

Is doubt the thief of certainty, or its keeper?

I feel the mind’s sharp edge slicing the quiet in me,

cutting away comfort, cutting away belief,

cutting away illusions I once wore like skin.

But the soul protests, whispering of a depth

that reason cannot fathom, touch, or name.

 

It is not despair—oh, not yet.

For something unseen walks behind my wondering,

my elusive questionings.

Yet quietly it does not speak,

only shifts the air just enough

for me to feel the ground shake beneath each footstep,

to remind me:

the world listens,

even in its hush.

 

Is this just self-delusion’s gentle hand? I often ask myself.

While I walk and wrestle with silence all too often

is it a veil, a prison, or a gift?

A curse with a poet’s name?

And when the world’s noise swells like storm-lit waves,

drowning the quiet tides I seek

the clamour of scrolling screens,

the fleeting truths of countless tongues,

each beckoning with noise and urgent distractions,

pulling eyes and hands away

from the core meaning of the question

 

Do I blame the noise, or my own tired will?

Is the hunger real, or just an echo,

born from fear of emptiness in this life?

Does the mind protect me from falling,

or chain me to a prison of doubt?

 

I feel the weight of a thousand shallow fires surround me,

fires burning bright but never burning deep,

consuming only the surface grasses,

never touching roots that drink the dark or consume the soul.

 

Can I be certain there are roots at all?

Or do I dream of darkness as a place to hide

from the blinding truths daylight demands?

 

And if I run from truth, do I deserve it?

If I question belief, does it still shelter me?

Is the skeptic in me the truer seeker

or just the coward afraid of being wrong?

 

In searching for those roots,

I begin to question the impulse to doubt within myself—

whether suspicion is itself a crafty disguise

worn by the part of my soul too tender to trust anything.

I let my uncertainty become a song sung high, a rhythm,

a sweeping tide rather than a wall.

 

But still, my mind screams for answers,

demands proof in logic and reason,

while my soul waits, patient, in the dark,

offering only feeling,

and cloning faith from flickers of hope.

 

Somewhere in this universe, along the trail of quiet stars,

I feel drawn by a pressure not forced,

not fierce, but firm—like wind knowing

how to lean without ever bruising the grass.

 

I start to believe in a gaze

that does not pierce but softens,

a regard not veiled by fear,

but shielded from being misunderstood.

I name it presence,

though it bears no name at all.

 

Yet every time I close my eyes and find the strength to reach for this presence in shattered hope,

my mind begins to whisper truths: illusion, mistake, desire.

The mind plays tricks, after all.

How can I trust what I cannot see?

How do I find faith when this doubt is the louder voice

wait—the only voice I’ve come to know?

How do I find belief when logic and reason

scream something more real than anything else?

 

There are days so still they crack with beauty,

their hollowness shaped like an answer never spoken.

Not absence, not longing—just the aftermath

of having needed too long without touch.

My thoughts become fixed as a fast,

a hunger refined into light

before darkness comes crawling.

 

But still, every new horizon that comes

shifts with each call to reason,

and the questions that remain in the silence

scatter every small truth I find.

Now obscured by the drifting shadows of meaning and inner noise,

my tired mind and weary faith is what

a lost ship adrift in a raging storm,

in a sea without north, nor compass, nor shore.

 

The more I search, the more the sky expands before my eyes

not into clarity,

but into vast unknowns.

Each star, a beacon of a new mystery.

Each silence,

a deeper riddle I dare not solve.

 

“I am mine,” whispers the voice in my spine,

“and all I carry is tension made radiant.

I am the pause before choosing,

and the weight of choosing after.

I do not stir war,

but I know the balance between stillness and strike.

I am not breath,

but the moment before breath begins again.”

 

Life—neither oracle nor flame—beckons,

not with certainty,

but with distance:

a journey older than any maps,

toward a cradle that might hold

either a poem,

or an echo

that once thought itself love.

 

And so I trace my star-thirsted mind,

through night’s vast tangle and the static hum,

seeking a core beneath the glittering distractions

a light that neither blinds

nor fades.

 

I learn that questions have no end,

and answers only open doors,

that true seeking is surrender,

and the deepest knowing

is to be lost.