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3 am
At 3 a.m., I can see the fan turning I can see the clock moving.
I'can hear my heartbeat filling the room.
But I cannot see my future.
I cannot hear the life I'm praying for.
All I hear are old traumas rehearsing their stories.
Old betrayals refusing to die.
The room is silent. The mind is not.
Every wound sounds permanent.
Then I look at the clock again. Still moving.
I listen to my heart again. Still beating.
And suddenly I remember-the trauma is loud
because it belongs to the past.
The future is silent because it owes me no explanation.
And if I've survived every night I thought would break me, then maybe the quote was right:
"The devil whispers,
'You cannot withstand the storm.'
The warrior replies, "I am the storm."
