Unrested Soul

There’s a version of me I recognize, and then there’s something else, something profound and unnamed, that lives within. It’s not hidden or dormant; it’s infused into every cell and organ, alive with restlessness, pressing outwards like a pulse from the nucleus of my being. It’s as if thirty trillion cells have each found a voice, knocking from the inside with no rhythm, no mercy. Sometimes, the chaos is noise. Sometimes it’s a migraine. And sometimes, it’s a silent heaviness, an oppressive weight without a name. These parts of me cry out to be freed, convinced I am their cage. But what they don’t see is that I, too, crave release. I’ve carried their confusion and fire far too long. Yet I’ve also learned that I can’t surrender this life to every flare of panic dressed up as truth. If they want freedom, they can have it, but not while the knocking continues, not until stillness returns.

Beyond this, there’s another dimension of me, watching, waiting, aware. This part of me holds no fear, only a quiet, patient hope. It prays for me to pass through the darkness and emerge into the light, understanding that pain is not punishment but passage. This higher self sees the whole map, the hidden meaning in every hardship, and knows I must walk the road myself. Surrounding it are other presences, not worried, not urgent, just present. They wait with timeless calm, understanding that some truths cannot be rushed. This journey was never meant to destroy me. It was meant to awaken me. Even when I cannot feel their peace, I sense their presence like a steady flame in the distance, reminding me that I’m not lost, only becoming.

And yes, there is pain. A version of me lives inside it daily, carrying the weight of old wounds and unmet questions. Deeper still, there’s something that doesn’t merely feel the pain but screams it. It is raw and relentless, and it will not let me turn away. Somewhere ahead, dim and flickering, is a light. It appears and disappears like a heartbeat, sometimes igniting hope, sometimes plunging me into fear. When I see it, my soul surges forward, pulled by a desire I can’t explain. When it fades, doubt takes its place, whispering that maybe I imagined it. Still, I walk. Because even if the light isn’t always visible, the memory of its glow is etched into me. I know it’s there. I know something is waiting, something better, something healing. And so, I keep going. Not because it’s easy but because I must. Because somewhere beyond the noise, the weight, and the ache, I am becoming who I was always meant to be.

Dana Obeid