Craving of being

I awoke in the middle of the night,

craving the feeling of being

not just alive,

but something sharper, deeper,

a pulse that hums through the marrow.

The world was silent,

but my chest was loud,

a beating drum echoing with questions

I didn’t dare ask in daylight.

What does it mean to be?

To feel the edges of yourself

and not recoil from their sharpness?

I stumbled through the dark,

feet bare against cold tiles,

seeking what? I didn’t know.

A taste, a touch, a tether to something real.

The kind of real that burns

and leaves you marked.

The craving wasn’t for love,

but for the fire it lights.

Not for comfort,

but the way chaos feels

when it wraps around you like a storm,

reminding you that you are more

than skin and breath.

I wanted the wind to tear through me,

the rain to sting,

the night to whisper secrets

it never shares with the sun.

I wanted to be raw,

to peel back the layers

until I was nothing but nerve and spark.

Because in the stillness,

I could feel the weight of almost.

Almost free.

Almost whole.

Almost alive.

And isn’t that the cruelest thing?

To wake in the middle of the night,

craving the feeling of being

only to realize that the feeling itself

is already slipping through your fingers.