There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
Life begins as a riddle without language,
a breath suspended between why and why not.
We enter it unarmored,
mistaking light for mercy,
mistaking voices for truth.
The world teaches its rudeness softly at first,
not through screams,
but through disregard.
Eyes that look through you,
hands that promise and withdraw,
kindness rationed like a rare element.
Here, you learn that tenderness
is a discipline,
and an innocent face could wear cruelty.
Sadness arrives with gravity,
not loud, but undeniable.
It settles into the ribs,
teaching the heart the weight of staying.
Betrayal comes early for some,
a familiar warmth that turns cold mid-embrace,
leaving behind the knowledge
that trust is like a glass on earth:
Once broken, it forgets its shape.
Then comes the noise,
a relentless choir of expectation,
opinions colliding like weather,
love shouted until it loses meaning.
And after the storm,
silence greets you.
Not absence of sound,
but the presence of truth unfiltered.
Silence does not demand explanation.
It allows grief to uncoil,
Let the soul sit without performance.
In its stillness comes real absence,
no longer a wound,
but a remedy.
A slow medicine swallowed by the spirit,
bitter with memory,
gentle with release.
You begin to see it clearly then:
Life is not meant to be conquered,
only understood in fragments.
Peace is not found in arrival,
but in knowing when to leave,
when to choose quiet over chaos,
and let the mystery remain,
unanswered,
and finally kind.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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