Rain outside. Mall inside.
Two worlds that never really meet.
Cold air on skin, steady and soft,
like time itself has been slowed down.
Walking without purpose,
from shop to shop,
everything bright, everything clear,
yet nothing holding the mind.
People pass close,
faces seen for a second, then gone,
like thoughts that don't finish speaking.
A small feeling appears—
not sadness exactly,
more like something familiar missing its name.
~
Why does something so full feel so quiet?
。 。 。
~
Escalators moving, music playing,
lights everywhere—
but inside, a strange stillness stays.
Maybe it is boredom,
or maybe it is too much holding back inside
for too long.
A kind of distance grows, even in closeness.
Like watching life through glass.
Then a softer thought comes:
is something missing,
or is it just everything passing too quickly to hold?
。 。 。
~
No answer follows.
Only footsteps.
Only rain waiting outside..
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YOU ARE READING
The Quiet and The Open
PoetryWhat is it that remains when everything is still moving? ~ If the world is full, why does something within it feel unseen? And if nothing is missing... why does the search continue? Two walks through the same light. Two breaths through the same rain...
