The Weight of Silence
21:34 Mar 27 2025
Times Read: 71
It has been a while since I last wrote. Longer than I intended, longer than I should have let it be. The empty pages have waited, their silence growing heavier with each passing day. And yet, I hesitated, unsure of what to say - unsure if there was even anything left to say. I wish I could claim it was due to a lack of time, that life had swept me up in something grand or consuming, that I had been too preoccupied to sit down and gather my thoughts... but that isn’t the truth. The truth is quieter, more insidious. The truth is stagnation.
Change comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s sharp and sudden, a jolt that forces you forward whether you’re ready or not. Other times, it’s slow - so slow you don’t even notice it happening. You wake up one day and everything is different, but you can’t pinpoint when, exactly, the shift occurred. Lately, it feels like the latter. A gradual drifting, an imperceptible unraveling of things that once felt so certain. The passions that once consumed me now sit untouched. The routines I used to follow have faded. Even being here, something that has always felt like a tether to myself, became a task I kept pushing aside.
And so, I wonder: is this change, or is it loss?
There’s a strange in-between space I seem to exist in now... not quite here, not quite gone. The things I once reached for don’t hold the same weight in my hands, but I don’t feel lost either. Just waiting. For what, I don’t know. A spark? A sign? The return of something familiar? I am not sure if I am searching for a way back to what was or if I should be looking ahead, toward something new.
It’s odd how easy it is to slip into this kind of quiet disconnection, how days blur together until suddenly weeks have passed, and you can’t quite recall what filled them. You go through the motions, carry out routines, answer messages with the same empty reassurances - "I'm fine," "Just tired," "Busy, but okay" - but there's an underlying hollowness to it all.
Maybe it’s the weight of the same days, repeated over and over again. The monotony of it, the way everything blends together until it feels like nothing at all. Maybe it’s a slow-growing detachment, an emotional numbness that crept in when I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe it’s exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in the bones, not from physical strain but from something harder to name.
I think about the things that used to pull me in, the things that once felt so necessary. The books that once swallowed me whole now sit unopened. The ideas that used to demand to be written now feel distant, like echoes of someone else’s thoughts. Even the small joys, the quiet comforts, seem muted.
And yet, despite all of this, I keep moving. I keep going, even when it feels like I’m walking in circles. I wake up, go about my day, tell myself tomorrow will be different. I find fleeting moments of connection... brief conversations, glimpses of laughter, a familiar voice. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe, for now, it has to be.
That’s why I write tonight, after so much silence. Not because I have answers, not because I’ve found my way back to something solid, but because the act of writing itself feels like proof that I’m still here. That I’m still trying. That even in the quiet, even in the uncertainty, there’s something inside me that refuses to disappear completely.
Perhaps that’s what I hold onto. Not certainty, not passion, not even a clear sense of direction - just the knowledge that I am still here. That I am still moving, even if I don’t know where I’m going yet. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.
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