—. Prelude —-
I look okay, don’t I?
Maybe a little quiet.
Maybe slower to laugh today.
But I got dressed. I showed up.
I’m “functioning,” right?
What you don’t see
is the fog sitting heavy between thoughts,
how every step feels like walking through wet sand,
how my skin hums with static
and my nerves echo like bruises.
What you don’t hear
is the small scream behind my smile,
the way I bargain with my body just to stand,
just to speak without breaking.
You ask me to join,
to participate, to engage—
and I want to.
But there’s a weight on me
that politeness can’t lift.
Still, I nod. I try.
I answer gently.
I say “I’m fine,”
because it’s easier
than explaining
a kind of tired that sleep won’t touch,
a kind of pain that leaves no scar.
This is the quiet storm.
This is me, trying to stay kind
while every fiber of me wants to retreat.
I am not asking for rescue.
Only for space.
A little stillness.
A little grace.
- can you see inside me? –
There is a hush, too dense for breath,
a hush that sifts through every bone,
not peace, but pressure dressed as calm,
a storm held still, alone.
The air around is motionless,
a theater of gentle norms—
smiles, small words, nods well-rehearsed,
beneath, a war of forms.
The flesh remembers thunder well,
each nerve a thread pulled tight.
It wants to flinch, to shout, to flee—
instead, it sits upright.
Politeness is a practiced pose,
a mask of folded hands,
while deep within, a choir roars
that no one understands.
The light moves slow across the floor,
unbothered by the ache.
Inside, the will to stay composed
begins to split and shake.
But still the voice stays soft and kind,
and still the teacup clinks,
and still the soul obeys the dance
while standing on the brink.
–Mani