The Distance Where Words Disappear

I couldn’t recognize people.
It felt as if only my life had a different season—while others laughed in spring, I stood in winter.

Sharing values only means we face the same direction;
if our grain doesn’t match, time together becomes labor.
The closer I get, the first thing to dry is my body, and the next thing to disappear is my voice.

I believe this:
energy shouldn’t be a fire that consumes one another,
but a warmth that keeps one another alive.

Even if the name “family” covers everything,
if a siren keeps sounding inside me,
that isn’t the architecture of love—it’s the architecture of alarm.

When I hold up the child of my soul to the light, I know.
Words can be sculpted into beauty,
but the tension in the body and the weight of silence cannot be forged.

So I leave.
From the old tangle, from the grain that dries me out.
Not out of hate—
but to live.
Toward a place where recovery is possible, where my breath returns.