The Art of Being Pulled Within

There’s an art to drifting, quiet and deep, Where thoughts go walking while the world’s asleep. Not quite dreaming, not quite awake— A hush between breaths, a soul’s soft ache. It pulls me gently, without a sound, To places lost, but never found. A forest of memories, shadow-lit, Where voices whisper and echoes sit. Faces blurred in a violet haze, Wounds replayed in a looping daze. Desires I buried, fears I fed— They dance like ghosts inside my head. Time bends backward, reason sways, I'm caught in my own forgotten maze. Yet still I follow, thread in hand, Through shifting dunes of inner sand. No map, no light, yet still I roam, A stranger moving toward her home. For there's a beauty, raw and blind, In being pulled by the subconscious mind.