13 de out. de 2025

Public Confession (Restricted): Logbook of Insanity No. 13

 


Public Confession (Restricted): Logbook of Insanity No. 13


Tonight, the world breathes inside me.
Quietly. Almost tenderly.
Everything is still — but not peaceful.
This is the silence of exhaustion, not of rest.
The storm has grown tired of its own thunder.
The shelter has locked itself from within.
And the mirror, ever loyal, looks back at me and lies.

The shelter, once a sanctuary, has become a disguise.
It knows too much. It hides too well.
It welcomes without warmth, protects without promises.
Comfort is dangerous; consolation, a trap.
I learned that the hard way.

And the mirror…
The mirror remembers every face I’ve worn.
It reflects, but it no longer recognizes.
It keeps the ghosts of every version of me that once tried to live.
It has become a cemetery of gestures,
a silent archive of what I once called love.

As for the storm — my oldest companion —
she has learned the art of stillness.
She no longer announces herself.
She simply waits, moving through me like breath through a sleeping beast.
Even chaos, I’ve learned, can age gracefully.

I hide the shards now.
Not from shame, but from instinct.
Some pieces shine too brightly, and light is always a danger to things born of the night.

To be the shelter, the mirror, the storm — all of them can be quiet.
The world calls it strength.
But I know better.
It’s only the ancient art of keeping the blood from dripping.

R.


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