some days
the mind is a house
with flickering lights
rooms you avoid
because they echo too loudly
you smile in the doorway
tell others you’re fine
while the ceiling drips
old fears you never fixed
thoughts pace
like restless ghosts at 3 a.m.
rattling memories
that refuse to be ignored
you learn that strength
is not the armor you wear
but the calm you hold
when no one is watching
healing isn’t a sunrise
that sweeps away the night
it’s learning the dark has furniture
you bruise
you rest
you try again tomorrow
some nights
the darkness loosens its grip
not to vanish
just enough to let you breathe
you don’t defeat the quiet
you live with it
and that
somehow
is light
The Creative Chic
The Creative Chic 
Restless night last night, too?
I can relate to this one. The ending is a good reminder. It’s easy to lose sight of that some nights.
Restless night, challenging day. It’s easy to lose sight of it most nights 💙
I hear you, hope tonight brings you more rest and a better day tomorrow 💙
Thank you, I hope so too 💙
Love the last stanza, Chic. Do you tried embedding voice before? It’s beautiful.
I have done several voice audios before, not with this one though. Thank you, Hazel!
The last part is the most difficult; accepting, and then embracing, that dark side.
Well written piece.
It really is the most difficult, for me too. Thank you.
That feels deeply honest — like walking through a place that’s both fragile and brave at the same time. I love how it acknowledges that the mind isn’t always a sanctuary; sometimes it’s a maze filled with echoes we’d rather avoid, yet we keep moving through it anyway. The image of strength shifting from armor to quiet resilience is powerful — it suggests that real courage isn’t loud or visible, but something held gently inside.
The line about healing not being a sunrise but learning the dark has furniture really stays with me. It speaks to acceptance rather than conquest — the idea that growth doesn’t erase pain, but teaches us how to live alongside it without losing ourselves. And that closing thought, that living with the quiet becomes its own form of light, feels both tender and hopeful. It reminds me that progress isn’t always dramatic; sometimes it’s just breathing a little easier than yesterday, and choosing to continue.
Wow, thank you for such a wonderful comment, I’m very grateful to you!