selfdisciplinedLion4579 Member Profile

...See more I’m not sure if I should post this on this forum. A Dream of Rest That Never Comes Pain—Not that which bruises flesh nor cuts beneath, Not the wounds that mend with time. Nay, that pain I know well, can see, can name, can press a hand upon and say, here, this is where it hurts. But this—this pain inside my head and in my chest unseen. It coils in the hollows of my ribs, It sinks into the marrow of my bones, A weight, I cannot lift. A wound, I cannot name. And so, I wait. For the touch of warmth, a voice that whispers, "I see thy pain." For a light to fill the cracks, for a hand to reach through the dark and pulls me free. But the silence answers in its place. It is not empty. Nay, it is full— so full it crushes me beneath its weight. Thickens the air I breath, clings onto my skin, presses into my throat like hands, unseen. It has form, has teeth, has hunger. And it is patient. It does not rage, does not weep— Simply waits, endless and knowing. It pulls me under, Encircles my throat, soft as a lullaby, merciless as the tide. It knows my name. It knows how long I have wandered, how long I have waited for something to change. And so, it whispers— "Why wait any longer?" And so, I wonder— if I let go, if I slip beneath the quiet, Would the weight finally ease? Would the hush embrace me whole, And take me where the waiting ends? And so, I begin to count the ways. A blade, sharp and certain, a rope, gentle in its promise, a fall, swift and final. Each one a door. Each one an escape. Each one whispering, “Come, rest.” And the doors—oh, oh, how they call to me. They neither creak nor groan in warning. They stand open, waiting, beckoning, edges gilded in silver light, thresholds soft as a lover’s arms. "Come" they whisper, "Feel the peace, the hush, the ease. No more weight. No more waiting." I turn my head to look away. The silence stops me, not. Nor beg me to stay. It only watches, as if to say, “I already know how this story ends.” I part my lips and begin a plea— to scream, to beg, to call for help— but no sounds come. No one listening. No one ever was. So, I dream. I dream of a voice cutting through the hush, of footsteps in the distance drawing near. I dream of hands closing around mine, of the silence shattering at last. I dream of hope. But the dawn draws nigh, and the dream wanes, slipping through my fingers like mist. And the silence remains, settling into my bones, pressing into my ribs until I am hollow. It hums now. Low, steady, certain. Not cruel, not kind—just there, a presence I cannot shake, a shadow I cannot outrun. And so, I wait again. For hope. For light. For something. But nothing comes. And the doors stand open, soft and waiting, whispering sweet lullabies, pulling me closer, closer. And the silence waits. And I do not know how much longer I can endure.

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