I remember the night I stopped resisting the dark—the moment I let the shadows fold me in like a cloak, heavier than grief and colder than loneliness. It wasn’t surrender. It was survival. When the world’s light scorches too bright for a soul already cracked, sometimes disappearing feels like the only refuge left. To be unseen is not mercy. It is exile without borders, a slow erasure traced in invisible ink. You become a ghost in your own life—there but forgotten, present but hollow, a whisper no one listens for. The ache isn’t in being alone, but in knowing you’re erased, erased with such precision that even memory begins to doubt you existed. Invisibility is not absence; it is a wound disguised as silence. There’s a brutal kind of violence in invisibility. It is not peace. It’s a wound kept open to the cold silence, a place where no one cares to search. Being unseen means you live on the edge of absence, your name forgotten like a language no one speaks anymore. And yet, from thi...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.