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...
They thought she was a fool, a soft mind draped in silence, a fragile echo in a room of louder names, easy to bend, easier to break. So they played with her, like careless hands with a borrowed soul, tossing her dignity between their laughter, calling it harmless, calling it nothing. They carved her days into servitude, stitched obedience into her breath, until she moved like a shadow, not of the world, but of what she once was. And oh, how they performed, life, to them, a grand theatre, where they stood as authors of fate, directors of pain, believing the script belonged only to them. They wore arrogance like a crown, spoke as though consequence was a myth, as though the unseen kept no record of hands that harm and hearts they fracture. But life, Life is a quiet architect. It does not argue, It does not warn, It simply watches… and remembers. In the unseen folds of time, something began to turn, not loudly, not all at once, but like a tide shifting beneath still waters. God, in silent...