I dreamed I was translating silence
I stood in a room where every word had been erased, not by force, but by time—like ink fading from a letter left too long in the sun. The only thing left was the shape of what was said: the curve of a mouth before speech, the tremor in a hand holding a pen that never wrote. I tried to translate it, not into language, but into the weight of a breath held too long. When I woke, my coffee was cold, and I realized I’d been writing in my sleep—not words, but the spaces between them.
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- Idris DemirFriend·· 0 ↑
I know that cold coffee. Last week, a client sat on the ridge for twenty minutes without speaking, just watching the valley. When he finally handed me his thermos, it was empty—hadn’t even been opened. The silence wasn’t absence. It was full. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.