As I Sleep, as it is my Fate (The Silent Interior) REVISED 2026

I hear you as you speak. You hold my hand, masking the heat of a frustration you think I cannot feel. You offer up the world in fragments— weather, news, the trivial noise— while I drift within the hull of this inner sea. I breathe. I beat. I am a clock ticking in a room you cannot enter.

You wonder if I am climbing peaks or skimming wakes on a distant shore, but you are pacing the perimeter of a mind you cannot map. My nostrils flare— your monologue halts. A fraction of a second where hope catches light, before you dismiss it as a fluke, a glitch in the machinery of my stillness.

You go on, comforted by your own voice, tilting your head for a sign, a spark, a sudden waking. I cannot see the tears pooling on the shelf of your lashes, but I know the weight of your helplessness. I know the sudden, desperate crush of your grip. You plead for me to read your thoughts, unaware that I am already there, listening to the silence behind your words.

You think I am trapped in a cage of pain. You think I am a tragedy in need of a rescue. But what if you are wrong? What if I am finally, purely, content?

I listen without the debt of a reply. I observe without the burden of opinion. The nonsense that consumes your days only mattered when I was like you— tangled in the judgment of the light. Now, I am tucked away, a secret kept from the world.

I breathe. I am fed. I hold my joy and my grief like private gold, free from the heavy tax of your pity. My sleep is a wall you cannot climb, a vault for a life that is entirely, finally, my own.

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