Stillness is not peace
unless peace exists in the stillness.
I search for it desperately,
but it hides its face from me.

Peace eludes me in this moment,
and I am trapped in a house of chaos,
where quiet is borrowed
and calm exists only as a dream.

Outside, birds sing their morning songs,
neighbors rise gently from sleep.
I long for the calm they seem to carry,
while within these walls
the chaos runs deep.

I yearn to break free from this prison of noise,
to meet the serenity time promises.
But peace is a fleeting guest,
always seeming to arrive after I turn away.

So instead, I wait.
I listen.
I stay still long enough
to hear my own unrest.

And in this quiet—
this quaint melancholy—
I finally see
that peace was never lost.

Only misplaced,
unfinished,
resting inside
my mind.

–The Nonconformist