Between Starvation and the Scream

The soul does not whisper—it starves or screams. All in between is the illusion of peace.

In the silence between the soul’s starvation and its outcry, we find the illusion of quiet—an artificial stillness that keeps us from confronting the essential hunger of being. It’s in the cries we refuse to hear, the ones we bury beneath distractions, that the true self makes itself known. The peace we crave is often the peace we’ve made of compromise, a truce with our most uncomfortable truths. But peace, in this sense, is not reconciliation—it’s resignation.

We imagine that the soul's desire can be satisfied by a soft murmur, by polite introspection. We overlook the primal scream that rises when we’ve neglected the body and spirit for too long. To experience truth is to starve, to let ourselves hunger for more than what the world offers—only then can we hear the scream that shatters the quiet.

It is only when the soul’s yearning is left unchecked, when we are stripped of the comforts of ignorance, that we understand—peace isn’t found in silence but in surrender. It is born from the raw confrontation with the void, from the moment we stop pretending the noise isn’t there. The soul does not whisper; it rages. It cries out, not for comfort, but for truth. And when we finally allow ourselves to hear that scream, when we stand face to face with our own emptiness, it is then that we begin the painful, necessary journey back to ourselves.

The quiet we chase is merely the quiet of a tomb, of a life lived in denial. But the scream—the scream is the pulse of existence itself. It is the cry that shatters the illusion and forces us to face the truth, however unbearable it may be. Only in that scream can we start to rebuild. Only in the fire of hunger can we hope to rise from the ashes of who we thought we were, into who we are meant to be.

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