Full of Feelings and Questions

Full of Feelings and Questions

What Happens When a Heart Can’t Find the Answer?

It always starts around 2 a.m.

The silence thickens. The world outside my window turns still—no sirens, no footsteps, not even the wind dares speak. And in that breathless quiet, my thoughts begin to gather like dust under forgotten furniture.

Tonight is no different.

I sit alone in my room, the lamp casting golden light over the journal I haven’t touched in days. My fingers hover over the pen, unsure whether they want to write or simply rest.

There’s no big event to write about. No heartbreak, no celebration. And yet—

I am full.

Full of emotions I can’t name.

Full of questions I don’t know how to ask.

When Did It All Begin?

Was it the moment I graduated, only to feel nothing but a hollow echo instead of pride?

Was it when I watched my mother cry quietly in the kitchen, pretending the onions were to blame?

Or maybe it was when he left—without a fight, without a reason, just a message that said:

“You’ll understand someday.”

I haven’t.

And I think that’s what’s breaking me.

They say we live in an age of answers. That every mystery has a search bar. But some things—the things that live in your chest, not in your head—those don’t come with clean explanations.

Questions That Keep Me Awake

Why do I miss people who hurt me?

Why does love sometimes feel like a burden more than a gift?

Why does silence say more than words ever could?

Why do I feel everything all at once, and nothing at all, in the same breath?

They pile up like laundry I keep promising to fold.

And like that laundry, I turn away, thinking “tomorrow, I’ll sort it all out.”

But tomorrow comes dressed like yesterday.

The Trouble With Feelings

I’ve been told I’m too sensitive. That I overthink. That I care too much.

They say it like it’s a flaw.

But what they don’t understand is that these feelings—messy, wild, aching—are the only proof I have that I’m alive.

I cry at movies I’ve seen ten times.

I laugh too loud at jokes that aren’t funny.

I write letters I never send, and stare at stars as if they’re supposed to blink back answers.

No, I’m not broken.

Just... overflowing.

A Memory That Won’t Let Go

Last winter, my best friend asked me:

“What do you want out of life?”

I laughed. Said something about traveling or writing a book.

But at night, I kept hearing that question.

What do I want?

Not a job.

Not success.

Not even love, in the fairy tale kind of way.

I want peace.

The kind that lives in your bones, not your bank account.

The kind that lets you fall asleep without rehearsing tomorrow’s conversations.

But how do you find peace when you don’t understand what’s stealing it?

Small Things That Almost Answer Big Questions

Sometimes the answers come in tiny moments:

Like when a stranger holds the door open, and for a second, you feel seen.

Or when a song plays that says exactly what you couldn’t put into words.

Or when your little cousin falls asleep on your shoulder and trusts you with their entire world.

They don’t erase the questions.

But they soften them.

Wrap them in a quiet kind of comfort.

What I Know (And What I Don’t)

I know that I feel deeply.

I know that I question because I care.

I know that not every answer arrives when you want it to.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s the point.

Because feelings aren’t problems to be solved.

They’re pages in a book we haven’t finished reading yet.

And questions aren’t traps.

They’re signposts, pointing us toward a truth we’re not ready to meet, but one day might.

Tonight

I pick up the pen.

I don’t try to solve it all.

I just write:

“Dear universe,

I don’t need you to explain everything tonight.

Just hold me while I wonder.

And let me feel, even if it hurts.”

And somehow, that is enough.

The night goes quiet again.

Not empty—just still.

I close my eyes.

Full of feelings.

Full of questions.

And finally, full of a little bit of peace.