The Price of Waking

There are those who sleep
beneath warm sheets of illusion,
unbothered,
curled like children in the lap
of a mother who whispers
only what soothes.

And then—
there are those
who open their eyes
and never sleep the same again.

They peel back the layers of silence,
touch the rusting bars
of their own unseen cage,
and feel the sudden sting
of sunlight too bright,
truth too raw.

Awareness—
a jagged, silver blade
tucked under the tongue.
It cuts the lies you once lived in
and makes them bleed,
one by one,
until you are soaked
in a grief that feels like
freedom.

You begin to see
how the world wears masks
painted with permanent smiles.
You begin to hear
the quiet agreements—
the don’ts, the musts,
the truths traded for convenience,
the chains of expectation
woven with velvet thread.

You ache with knowing.

Before, there were easy mornings.
Now, you wake with a stone
in your chest—
the weight of a question
no one dares to answer:
Is it more human
to live with open wounds,
or to pretend
the skin was never torn?

You remember
when you believed
that peace was a still pond—
but now,
you see that even stillness
can be a disguise for stagnation.
You learned
that calm can be a coma
with no exit door.

They tell you,
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
But that is only true
for those content
to be statues in the museum
of someone else’s story.

You tried to un-know
what you had seen,
tried to reassemble
the soft lie
you once slept inside.
But your fingers fumbled,
because awareness,
once awakened,
does not forget
how to breathe.

It demands you walk
barefoot through the thorns,
while others dance
on polished floors.

And still—
you walk.

Because something
in the marrow of your bones
whispers that virtue
is not comfort,
and that the soul,
when honest,
rarely rests.

The ignorance you left behind
was not innocence—
it was anesthesia.

It dulled you.
It kept you
from feeling
how small your world had become,
how the ceiling
was never the sky,
just painted blue
to keep your questions quiet.

They live with closed eyes
and call it peace.
You live with open scars
and call it living.

You have seen
the puppet strings,
the spinning wheels
that churn illusion into sugar.
You have tasted the bitter truth
beneath the sweet surface
and still—
you choose truth.

That is not masochism.
That is not madness.
That is the courage
of becoming.

Because you know
that behind every smile
rooted in ignorance
is a scream waiting
for language.

And you have heard it.

You have listened
to your own cry
in the hollow night
when the world slept
and you sat with your awakening
like a wounded animal
trembling in your lap.

You did not silence it.
You sang to it.

You gave it
a place to sit beside you
at the table of your becoming,
and it ate
from the same plate
as your joy.

Is it more human
to feel the weight
of what is broken
and still choose
to carry it?

Or is it more human
to cover it,
to nod politely
and call the mask
a face?

You know the answer
because you live it.

You feel the sharp edges
of every illusion
you once loved.
You bury them
like dead birds
and hold funerals
for the parts of yourself
that once believed
in the soft mercy
of ignorance.

But in your eyes now
is a clarity
no illusion can survive.

You see the cage
and name it.
You see the prison
in the polished glass tower.
You see the suffering
beneath the smiles
of the oblivious.

And it hurts.

But there is light
in that hurt.
A flame
that doesn’t burn
but reveals.
And in that light,
you are no longer
a captive
of shadows.

You are not safe.
You are not numb.
You are not quiet.

But you are free.

And freedom—
true freedom—
asks a high price.
It demands
your illusion.
It demands
your peace.
It demands
your sleep.

But it gives you
something better:

It gives you yourself.

And that,
despite everything,
is enough.

#Poetry #Awareness #TheHumanCondition #Awakening #TruthHurts #ConsciousLiving #BeyondIllusion