Echoes in the Dark

In the quiet, where the world forgets,

I hear the whispers that cling to the walls of my mind.

Soft, trembling voices,

echoes of moments I buried

beneath laughter, beneath smiles,

beneath the weight of pretending

that everything is okay.

Each secret I hid

breathes again in the shadows.

It knows my tremble,

my fear of being too much,

my fear of being not enough.

It watches, patient,

like the last star before dawn,

waiting for me to notice it.

I remember the nights

when my heartbeat was a drum

too loud for the silent room,

too honest for the quiet world.

I traced the walls

with trembling fingertips,

hoping to find the edge

where my loneliness ends

and someone—anyone—

understands.

But understanding

is a fragile thing.

It flickers,

like candlelight in a storm,

and I have learned

that most will not wait.

They do not linger in the dark

to hear the echoes

I cannot silence.

Still, I listen.

I lean close to the hum beneath my ribs,

to the rhythm of my own pulse,

because somewhere,

in this vast, uncharted night,

there is truth.

Truth that says

your scars are maps,

not prisons.

That your tears are rivers,

not ruins.

That the echoes in the dark

are not warnings

but invitations

to rise.

Rise, though the floor trembles.

Rise, though the sky is heavy

with unshed storms.

Rise, though the world has forgotten

the shape of your name.

Rise, because even in shadow

there is beauty,

even in silence

there is voice,

even in despair

there is breath.

I remember a day

when I thought I could not breathe.

When the walls of my mind

were filled with the weight of expectations,

and my own heartbeat

was a prisoner.

I thought I was alone.

And yet, even then,

there was a whisper:

“You are here.

You are alive.

And you are enough.”

It was not loud.

It did not shout.

It did not demand

that I suddenly forgive the world

or myself.

It simply waited.

Like a small flame,

steady, enduring,

teaching me patience

in the art of survival.

I have walked through nights

that seemed endless,

through streets wet with rain,

through alleys filled with forgotten voices,

and each step has been a question:

Can I rise?

Can I shine?

Can I be seen

without fear

without shame?

The answer is not simple.

It is slow.

It comes in fragments:

a kind word from a stranger,

a smile from someone who sees me,

the quiet acceptance of my own trembling heart.

And so, I gather the echoes.

Piece by piece,

I build a mosaic

from the fragments of myself

I once thought broken.

Each memory,

each scar,

each fear

becomes a tile

in a pattern

that no one can erase.

I speak to the night

as if it were a friend:

“You are heavy, yes,

but you are also patient.

You hold my story

in the folds of your darkness,

and you will not judge me

for needing time

to find my light.”

There is a strange beauty

in listening to your own echoes.

In hearing the soft truths

that only emerge

when the world is asleep,

when the noise has faded,

when you are left

with the raw, unguarded self

you usually hide.

In these quiet hours,

I learn that hope is not always a shout.

Sometimes,

it is a whisper.

Sometimes,

it is a breath between tears.

Sometimes,

it is simply the courage

to stand again

when everything inside you

is begging you to fall.

The echoes in the dark

teach me patience,

teach me love,

teach me that survival is sacred,

and that rising

is an art

not for the faint of heart,

but for those brave enough

to honor their own shadows.

So I rise.

Slowly,

hesitantly,

but I rise.

With the echoes in my chest,

with the whispers in my soul,

with the quiet understanding

that I am more than the sum

of my fears,

more than the nights that held me,

more than the silence

that almost consumed me.

I rise,

and in rising,

I carry the darkness

like a familiar song,

like a teacher,

like a mirror

that reminds me

I am here,

I am alive,

and there is beauty

even in the shadows

where the world forgets to look.

And the echoes,

soft and patient,

follow me,

not as chains,

but as wings.