They say silence is peace.
But in my head, silence is a battlefield.
No bullets, no bombs. Just echoes, hitting walls that never crumble.
It started slow —
A night like any other. Laughter in the air, shadows on the ceiling, heartbeat steady.
Then a glance, a puff, and suddenly…
Stillness wasn’t calm anymore. It was a mask. And I wore it without knowing.
I wasn’t chasing a high.
I was running from noise —
The daily weight of pretending I’m okay.
The world claps for the mask, not the man underneath.
So I drifted. One breath at a time.
Thought I was floating.
But I was falling, wasn’t I?
The air thickened.
Time slowed.
And I reached a place where thoughts don’t talk — they scream.
Memories that never happened whispered like they were mine.
Fear didn’t shout. It whispered.
Said things like, “Why fight it?”
“It’s easier here.”
“No more climbing.”
And for a second… I believed it.
But then — her.
No name. No savior. Just… her.
She didn’t speak wisdom. She didn’t rescue.
She sat in the rubble with me.
Looked at me like I wasn’t broken.
And in that silence, I remembered something.
Not strength. Just… standing.
Not healing. Just… surviving.
My heartbeat wasn’t a warning anymore — it was music.
Unstable, messy, but mine.
And the voices in my gut?
They weren’t demons.
Just tired parts of me.
Begging to be heard.
Begging for rest without guilt.
People think when the trip ends, you wake up.
Nah.
Some trips stay.
They shape you.
Repaint your memories in colors that never existed.
Sometimes they show up as music.
Sometimes panic.
Sometimes just silence.
I left my city. Moved in with her. Thought peace was a place.
But you can’t outrun your echo.
It lives in your chest.
Bielefeld wasn’t peace.
It was a challenge.
Could I stand still without falling apart?
Could I rebuild while pieces still shook?
The ground felt unstable.
Not from drugs.
From memory.
The kind that crawls up your spine when you least expect it.
That one door behind your eyes —
The one you didn’t know had your name on it?
Yeah. It never stays shut.
Some days, I woke up exhausted.
Not from sleep.
From pretending.
From carrying the weight of who I used to be and who I want to be.
But then came voices.
Real ones.
Slavik laughing. Her humming in the kitchen.
My own hand gripping a pen.
Writing became my anchor.
A CPR rhythm.
Every sentence: a breath.
Every rhyme: a heartbeat.
Every truth: a reason to keep breathing.
And now I write this, not from the edge.
Not from the fall.
From the middle.
From the thin line between breaking down and breaking through.
Because I get it now:
You don’t have to win every fight.
Sometimes surviving is the win.
Sometimes opening your eyes in the morning is enough.
They say: “Heal and move on.”
I say: “Understand and move through.”
Not every scar needs to fade.
Some are maps.
Proof you made it through.
And when that door calls again — and it will —
I won’t run.
I’ll answer.
I’ll say:
“I remember you. But I’m not scared of you anymore.”
I’m just… aware.
Leonard
