☕Still I ☕
The room does not hum. It only breathes slow, like something that has forgotten how to rush.
I stand by the window, stirring coffee until the dark liquid spins into a small, quiet storm. Outside, the world moves—cars pass, voices drift, leaves turn—but inside these four walls, time has folded itself soft and still.
I pick up my phone, scroll through words in languages I am still learning to hold. I write lines that feel like half-remembered things. I play games where victories taste like dust, where no one cheers, no one leans in close to say well done. Even the rhythm of my breath, the weight I lift each day, the steady beat of muscle and bone—they do not shine or boast. They simply are.
Nothing here smiles back. Nothing laughs to see me.
And yet I have stopped asking for the noise. I have stopped knocking on empty air. I look at the light slant across the floor, at the steam curling thin from my cup, at the shadows that stay faithful when all else goes. I have learned to stand here, in the quiet, and let it be enough.
I do not ask for grand things. I do not ask for the world to turn my way. I only ask this:
That when I lay my head down tonight, the silence will be kind. That my eyes will close easy. That sleep will come, soft as moonlight, and wrap me whole
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