.jpg)
There are things I have never said—because I couldn’t, because words fracture the weight they try to hold. You see, some truths do not fit inside syllables. They are too wide for vowels, too wounded for grammar. I carry them not in my mouth but in my spine, in the slight curve of a shoulder that remembers who left, in the tension of a jaw clenched too often in silent rooms.
This body—this soft machine of survival—has become a vault of truths I was too afraid or too inarticulate to name. And maybe that’s what we forget in our obsession with expression: that not all honesty is verbal. Some of it is kneeling on a cold floor after another sleepless night. Some of it is the hesitation before a touch. Some of it is how you flinch when the world comes too close.
I have smiled while dying. Laughed while disintegrating. The world only sees what sounds pass through the lips. But what if I told you the real monologue was happening behind the eyes, under the skin, in the thousand micro-movements that betray the truth we never dared to speak?
Language has always been overrated. Or maybe it’s just insufficient.
You do not know me because you read my posts or heard me speak. You will only begin to understand when you sense the ache in my silence, the memory in my posture, the refusal in my absence. We all speak in bodies, whether we acknowledge it or not.
When someone withdraws, do not chase their words—read the retreat. When someone reaches out, do not over-analyze their confession—feel the trembling of the hand. We are constantly confessing. Just not always in language.
The first time I realized this, I was standing in front of a mirror, trying to name my grief. I couldn’t. The words were shapeless, slippery, hollow. But there it was—my body, quietly archiving every bruise, every goodbye, every thing I didn’t survive but still lived through. I saw my own reflection and finally understood: truth isn’t told. It is endured.
You may never hear my story, but if you listen closely, you might feel it in the way I take long pauses before answering questions that matter. In the way I go quiet when someone speaks of fathers. In the way I turn my head at certain kinds of music, the ones that remember for me.
So much of who we are is what we never say.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because the body never lies.
Comments
Post a Comment