Dance and Reflection

The strange thing about silence is how loudly it speaks when you’re not listening for it. It hums in the background, unnoticed, until you’re left standing amidst the remnants of choices never made and words never uttered. A quietness that feels less like absence and more like presence, like an unspoken truth lingering in the air.

We’re all haunted by decisions we never made, like ghosts that won’t leave the corners of your mind. It’s a strange thing, regret. Not the kind that claws at you with sharp edges, but the kind that seeps in slowly, like smoke, unnoticed until you’ve already inhaled it. You realize, maybe a little too late, that some things should’ve never been touched. Some words should’ve never been spoken. And some silences? Perhaps they were meant to stay locked in place, never to be disturbed by the rashness of our own desires.

But the mind, restless as it is, cannot leave well enough alone. There’s this vault, see, tucked deep within—hidden under layers of fleeting distractions. And in that vault, all the unsaid things are stored. Not with care, but with cold indifference. Thoughts that should have flown away, left in the air like wisps, instead are imprisoned. And the strange thing? You’re the only one who remembers. The only one who feels the weight of what’s been left unresolved. Everyone else moves on, the world spins, and you’re still here, clutching the ghosts of forgotten conversations, trapped in the silence you helped build.

Somewhere, in the quiet corners of this labyrinth, lies a truth we’re too afraid to confront: not all puzzles are meant to be solved. Not all clarity is worth pursuing. There’s a curse in trying to unravel everything, to find answers in places that are meant to stay unanswered. Some knots are meant to hold their shape, no matter how much we tug at them. And yet, we try—endlessly—because what else can we do when we’re conditioned to believe that knowing is freedom? But some truths aren’t freeing. They just strip you bare, layer by layer, until there’s nothing left but the quiet hum of the universe, reminding you that not everything needs to be understood.

And then there’s the dreamer’s curse. The one who wakes, only to find the dream was never real. But isn't that the cruelest irony? That hope, that ever-fading light, is most beautiful in the moments it’s untouchable. The dream is always better than the waking. The possibility always holds more allure than the actualization. So we chase it, even when the sun rises and it all fades into memory, like dust underfoot.

We can call it madness, or maybe it’s just the truth no one wants to admit: reality is just the skin of illusion. We spend our lives in the spaces between—between what we believe and what we know, between the dream and the awakening. Maybe that’s where the real beauty lies: in the tension. In choosing something ephemeral—choosing the moon over the sun, the impossible over the mundane. And in doing so, we may just find ourselves in a place we never intended to be, yet somehow needed to be all along.

And when the world asks why we do it—why we keep walking in these circles, why we keep longing for things we know we can’t touch—what do we say?

We say nothing.

And the silence is louder than any answer we could give.