I didn’t come here to be found. I came here to hear what couldn’t speak in the city. And in that time I encountered a silence so loud it cracked me open.
I never imagined that lying in a hammock with only my thoughts could make me feel more alive than any curated noise or crowded room ever had.
There were days I didn’t speak a word. Only listened.
To the rustling of wind through palms.
To the low hymn of insects weaving shadow and light.
To the space between bird calls, where God sometimes slips in.
No one prepared me for how loud the silence would be at first.
No one warned me that stillness could echo like a scream.
In the city, silence was dangerous. A void to be filled. A threat.
So I filled it—with ambition, with sound, with glass and movement and mirrors.
But the jungle had no mirrors.
Just space for reflection.
Here, I lived in rhythm with the elements.
With the sunlight waking me.
Rain baptizing my windows.
Dreaming in darkness undisturbed by the world.
I began to measure time not by deadlines, but by the shifting colors of the sky.
The moon in her moods. The stars in their patterns.
The quiet ecstasy of being, unobserved.
And in that quiet, I softened.
I stopped performing my presence.
And became it.
There was no one to impress. No stage to build.
Just the holy work of witnessing myself without distortion.
It was in the stillness that the real voice came.
Not the one shaped by fear or longing, but the one I buried beneath them.
The one that spoke in knowing, not needing.
I found delight in the silence.
In the small, private miracles.
In the return of my own breath.
And the truth is:
There are certain things that can only be heard when the world goes quiet.
Certain things that don’t reveal themselves until you are still enough to notice.
Like how solitude is not loneliness, but sovereignty.
And silence?
Silence is the sound of your soul remembering its name.
