The Comfort of Oblivion

The dark hums low—a lullaby of quiet ruin, whispering promises of weightless rest, a siren song, so soft, so known, where echoes hush and silence nests.

Familiar hands pull at the fraying seams, each thread unraveled, each tether loosed. The call to drift, to fold, to fade— a comfort worn, a fate seduced.

But in the hush, a hollow lingers, a hunger coiled behind the haze, a quiet truth, a distant flicker, a voice that cuts through static waves.

What if the fire does not consume, but carves a path through calloused skin? What if the ache is not the end, but where the light comes breaking in?

The weight of being bears its fangs, yet still, my pulse refuses rest. To feel, to burn, to walk through pain— the harder road, the truer test.

So I will stand, though shadows writhe, though sorrow beckons, fierce and wild. Not swallowed whole, not stripped away— but tempered, scarred, and undefiled.

For in the dark, the stars still breathe, their fragile glow a steady guide. Oblivion calls in tender tones, but something deeper whispers: Rise.