The Second Silence

Sometimes, I wonder if the pain didn't start in the body. My forehead echoes with a dull throb, like a temple bell on a winter morning— each strike shattering the emptiness around it. It’s the cold wind of the soul, wandering inside for too long, finally beginning to knock against my bones.

But I know this is not just a headache. The doctor calls it neurological migraine. Yet deep down, I know it’s not the nerves—it’s me, slowly decaying from within. My spirit sinks beneath the surface, while my limbs still drift above the water. My soul refuses to be trampled like this—in agony, I taste what it means to truly be alive