They laugh at the echo and think it is me. But it is not. I wind up the strings of my own voice, make it dance in the air like something alive. But I am the puppeteer—and I no longer remember the sound of silence that belongs to me. They call me vibrant. Charming. Magnetic. And I smile—not because they’re wrong, but because they’ve mistaken the flicker for the flame. They see the light, never the burn. truth is, i don’t talk. i translate . i don’t joke. i offer . not because i want to—but because i know how. I wear my extroversion like a tailored coat— flawless in fit, hollow in fabric. Inside, I shiver where no one looks. and the paradox is cruel: the better i become at being someone everyone can love, the further i drift from anyone who might understand me. what is the word for being surrounded and starving? for being applauded and erased? maybe i am just a prism—light passes through me, gets refracted, becomes beauty. but the prism itself remains invisible. used. clear...
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.