That Which I Left Unsaid

I hadn't noticed it right away — not because it was imperceptible, not because it was hiding, but because it interrupted nothing. No sound, no movement, no thought was disturbed by its presence. It had slipped into the thread of hours like a fine condensation on the skin, imperceptible at first, but already there, lodged in the hollow of sensations, between breath and the threshold of language — already there, as if it were the world itself that had decided to settle inside me without warning, in a form so gentle it passed for natural, for neutral, for nothing. There had been no eruption, no tearing, no revelation. Only the exact continuity of what I had become: a porous space, inhabited, crossed, without defense. And yet, something, somewhere, had begun to speak — within me, through me, without me.