Mariam :
Trapped in a silent hill, I don't talk to no one, not just cause I lost my voice, but I'm not sure we speak the same language anymore. The divide isn't a distance you can measure in miles; it’s a shift in the frequency of the soul where they move in high-definition—bright, jagged, and loud—while I have become a charcoal sketch in a world that only recognizes oil paint. Every time I try to bridge the gap, the words come out as ash because there are no nouns for the way the light dies behind the treeline or the way the air here tastes like iron and old memories. I watch them move through their lives, arguing over trivialities like missed calls or cold coffee, and it feels like watching a play performed in a tongue that went extinct a thousand years ago. I am not angry at their noise; I am just tired of the effort it takes to pretend I can still hear the music they’re dancing to, standing in the middle of their crowded rooms like a pillar of salt while the waves of their conversation break against me without ever soaking through. We are standing on the same ground, yet I am a resident of the static between stations, a ghost who forgot to leave, waiting for the fog to finally become thick enough to swallow the last of my silhouette until there is nothing left but the silence and the long, slow fading.
2026-04-10 20:13:33