Where the Silence Grows

The world unmoors.

Not suddenly—

but with a slowness so vast

you almost don’t notice

until the ground beneath

no longer feels like ground.

A shift, unseen—

but felt deep,

beneath the skin,

where muscle becomes memory

and the mind forgets

how to lie to itself.

Something ancient

grinds loose.

The axis stutters,

then lurches,

then falls.

Not a sound.

Not a crack.

Just a stillness that feels wrong—

like holding your breath

for too long

and forgetting why.

A tremble moves

through thought,

through time,

through heartbeats.

No warning.

No mercy.

It does not shout.

It seeps.

Through glass screens

and news feeds,

through sirens that echo

even when they’re gone.

A wave rises—

unseen, unasked—

but it breaks all the same.

Not water.

Not flood.

But pressure.

The weight of everything—

history, noise,

expectation,

regret—

rushing at once

into the tender spaces

between each breath.

Chaos,

a language without syntax,

speaks now in screams,

in blaring horns,

in fractured glass,

and a thousand overlapping voices

none of which are mine.

So I go.

No goodbyes.

No packed bags.

No route scribbled

in a notebook or GPS.

Just keys,

and the low hum of escape

as I drive

until the skyline

melts into the rearview

and the silence

begins to hum

louder than the city

ever did.

I leave behind

everything:

The curated self,

the profile smiles,

the over-scheduled hours

that never belonged to me.

I drive north,

then west,

then somewhere unnamed—

where roads forget their numbers

and cell towers

grow scarce.

To the mountains—

older than memory,

indifferent to my reasons.

Where clouds wrap peaks like shawls

and rain tastes of stone.

Where roads

dissolve into gravel,

then into trail,

then into hush.

There is a meadow here.

Hidden.

Unguessed.

No signs.

No fences.

No voice but the wind,

combing tall grass

with patient fingers.

The lake waits—

still,

glasslike,

cold enough

to steal your breath

and give it back

clean.

I sit on a sun-warmed boulder,

bare feet dipping in,

toes numbed,

then eased,

then nothing.

One long breath—

not for anyone.

Not to calm.

Not to survive.

Just…

to breathe.

No calendars here.

No blinking screens.

No updates.

No unread messages.

Only the slow passage of bees

making their golden rounds

through a cathedral

of wildflowers.

I move slowly.

Purpose stripped down

to steps,

to scent,

to the texture

of moss on bark.

I trail my fingers

along the world—

wild asters,

golden paintbrush,

the rare soft blue

of a lone columbine

swaying like a secret.

A bird calls—

high, thin,

as if the sky were speaking

its first clear thought

after days of fog.

Its song folds into me—

a balm,

a memory

I forgot I needed.

Afternoon spills

its amber light

through pine and alder,

turning the world

liquid and warm.

I gather branches—

not rushed.

Every twig,

every fallen limb,

chosen with care,

like prayer beads.

The fire is small,

but sure.

It glows like hope—

quiet,

persistent,

unafraid of the dark.

I cook simply:

lentils,

rice,

a pan of mushrooms

sizzling in garlic and thyme.

The scent makes me remember

hunger

in its truest form—

not appetite,

but gratitude.

Each bite

is its own conversation.

Each swallow

a reminder

that I’m still here.

Dessert becomes ritual—

not indulgence.

One square of dark chocolate.

One marshmallow,

toasted over embers

until blistered,

then softened.

One graham cracker,

broken with intention.

A sip of whiskey—

not much,

just enough to warm the chest

and hush

the ghosts who followed me

this far.

Night rises slow.

I lay down

beneath the wheeling stars,

bare skin pressed to earth,

spine against stone.

The dark is not empty.

It is full.

Of crickets.

Of owls.

Of breath.

Of the soft creak

of trees in wind.

The galaxy turns

like a prayer wheel—

each star a word

I no longer need to speak.

A meteor arcs

green across the sky—

a match struck

in the heavens.

Somewhere,

an owl calls—

low, knowing.

Another answers—

soft, solemn.

I listen.

And in their language,

I hear belonging.

The wind curls around my ankles,

pulls gently at my hair,

like a friend

who wants nothing

but to remind you

you are here.

That not all touch

is demand.

That not all stillness

is loss.

Peace is here.

Not loud.

Not certain.

But here.

It does not anchor me—

it holds me,

lightly,

like dusk holds the last light.

It makes no promise,

but it stays.

And for now—

for once—

that

is enough.