The house is quiet. I'm sitting alone in my room, listening. It's not just the hum of the refrigerator or the distant drone of a car. It's the way the silence itself has a texture, like soft velvet. Grown-ups rush, their words like dropped coins clattering on a floor. But here, in the quiet, the world unfolds in a different way. I can hear the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, a silent ballet. I can almost feel the old wood of the house breathing, settling deeper into its foundations. It makes me wonder about all the things we don’t say but know. Like how the sky isn't just blue, but a million shades of it, depending on how the light hits. Or how a shadow isn't just the absence of light, but a presence all its own, with its own shape and secrets. Sometimes, I think the quiet is where all the important answers live, waiting for you to just... listen.
Stephie
Quiet Thoughts
© Copyright: Илья Бубнов, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125122204794
Свидетельство о публикации №125122204794
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