When the Noise Falls Away

When the noise falls away,

something is revealed.

Doors close.

Rooms empty.

The familiar signals stop.

Silence arrives not as peace,

but as a question.

Who remains

when nothing is asked,

when no role is required,

when presence is no longer exchanged for attention?

At first, it feels like absence.

The world continues elsewhere.

Voices gather in other places.

Life seems to move on without noticing

what has paused.

But stillness is not nothing.

It is a clearing.

In it, the body stays.

Breath keeps its rhythm.

A quiet knowing watches

without needing to be seen.

What fades were the ties

held together by movement,

by usefulness,

by response.

What remains is not loud,

not impressive,

not comforting at first.

It is simply this:

Something here does not leave

when there is no audience.

And slowly, without announcement,

a different kind of belonging forms—

one that does not depend

on being reached.

In the end,

nothing was taken.

Only the noise was.