Enjoy The Silence..

Isolation is a cathedral built from the bones of every moment I couldn’t survive whole.
Its halls echo with the soft drag of memories that never learned to die properly.Tragedy didn’t just visit — it colonized me,
rearranged my insides like furniture in a house no one lives in anymore.Now numbness moves through me like a slow animal,
heavy-footed, patient,
leaving prints in places where feeling used to bloom.I’ve grown used to the way silence gnaws.
It doesn’t bite to kill —
it bites to remind me I’m still here,
still made of something that can be chewed.In the darker hours, the walls breathe.
They inhale my past, exhale shapes I don’t recognize —
silhouettes of who I might have been
if the world had been kinder,
or if I had been softer.Sometimes I hear the tragedies whisper,
not in words,
but in the grinding of gears behind my ribs,
a machinery built from grief
that keeps turning even when I sleep.And yet, in this strange quiet,
I find a brutal kind of peace —
the peace of a battlefield long after the smoke clears,
when the ground is still warm
and the sky refuses to look away.I sit in the ruins of myself
and feel the numbness settle like dust,
thick, inevitable,
a blanket woven from every moment I didn’t break
but didn’t heal either.Isolation doesn’t comfort me.
It crowns me —
a monarch of the empty,
ruling over a kingdom of quiet scars
that no longer bleed
but never learned to close.

I learned to live inside the hush,
where the world stops asking for pieces of me.Tragedy carved its lessons deep,
left whole rooms in me quiet and untouched.Now numbness sits beside me like an old friend —
not warm, not cold, just present.In the stillness, I breathe without explanation,
finding a strange peace
in the parts of me that no longer ache.

Isolation is a soft-lit room
where my shadows finally stop performing.The tragedies I carried
pressed my heart into a quieter shape,
taught me the language of numbness —
a dialect of survival, not surrender.Here, in the silence I didn’t choose
but somehow grew into,
I rest among the ruins
and feel the faint hum of something steady,
something mine,
something untouched by the world’s noise.

I sit alone, not as a punishment,
but as a place where my breath can land softly.Life’s tragedies left frost on my ribs,
taught me how to move without feeling every bruise.And in this quiet,
numbness becomes a blanket —
thin, imperfect, but enough
to let me gather myself.Isolation isn’t escape.
It’s the small room
where I learn to exist again
without breaking.

Isolation wraps around me like a dim-lit corridor,
a place where even my echoes have learned to keep quiet.The tragedies I carried didn’t just bruise —
they rewrote the architecture of my insides,
left whole chambers cold and uninhabited.Numbness settled in those empty rooms,
not as mercy,
but as a slow, creeping frost
that taught me how to stop feeling without dying.And in this silence,
I find a strange kind of shelter —
not comfort,
but the absence of anything sharp enough
to cut me again.I sit with the darkness because it knows my name,
and because it asks nothing of me
except to exist quietly
in the ruins I’ve become.