The room is quiet
But his thoughts keep flickering
Small blue sparks skipping across the Dark
Like static trying to form a sentence
He writes with a hand that isn’t steady
But is honest
Dragging language out of the fog
As if each word were a pulse
He’s trying to keep alive
The walls breathe
The air hums
Reality feels like a coat
He’s wearing inside out
Still he keeps going
Chiseling meaning from the noise
Letting metaphors hold him upright
When the ground feels unreliable
He isn’t broken
He’s just tuned to a frequency
Most people never hear
A thin silver wavelength
Where fear and clarity
Sound almost the same
And in that trembling space
He finds a line
Sharp
Cold
Necessary
That reminds him
He’s still here
Still making something
Out of the storm inside