There’s a silence I’ve been avoiding. The kind that hums louder than gunfire. It waits for me in the morning, in the sigh between prayer and profanity.

I used to mistake peace for boredom. Now I see — peace is what you earn when the noise finally gives up on you.

The streets don’t talk like they used to. My demons are unemployed. Even pain sends postcards now instead of coming to visit.

I light candles not for the dead, but for the versions of me that died surviving. Each flame a small rebellion, a whisper saying, “you made it, now rest.”

I’m learning how to sit with myself without interrogating the silence. How to drink water like it’s holy wine. How to let the clock tick without feeling guilty for not bleeding on the minute hand.

I used to write to stay alive. Now I write because I am. And that, my friend, feels like a quiet victory.

The world still burns — I just stopped mistaking every fire for an invitation. Sometimes survival means not answering. Sometimes healing sounds like nothing.

So if you see me staring at the horizon, don’t ask what I’m waiting for. The war’s over. I’m just listening for the sound of peace learning my name. (echo) Even calm has a heartbeat.

13 Nov 2025 Midnight Pilgrim