PROSE – FOWC & RDP

I drift through the mist of life’s abyss, not falling, not flying—just suspended. Time doesn’t move here; it folds in on itself, leaving me trapped in a silence that isn’t peace, but ritual. Dutiful. Respectful. A silence learned over years of swallowing words and measuring breaths. It’s the kind of silence that makes you forget the sound of your own voice.

The air around me stirs, barely. Still, I hear the whispers—low, deliberate, cold. They speak not in sentences, but in suggestions, in warnings that curl around my ears and settle in my chest. They speak of fate, of choices already made, of a path too worn to change.

In my hand, the quill waits, poised like it knows the weight of what it might say. But it’s grown unwieldy—too much meaning, too much memory packed into such a fragile thing. I grip it, unsure whether to write or release. Each word feels like it could be the last. Maybe this sentence is where I stop. Maybe this is where I finally let go.

But still I hover, caught in that space between thought and surrender, listening to the hush of everything I’ve never said.