A small voice inside kept saying, “I need to be quiet.”
I argued with it. My silence is restriction. Reasoned with it. I am not a quiet person. Ignored it.
But still it said, “Be quiet.”
The days droned on in blended shades of gray. The peaks and valleys were still situated around a baseline of meh. There were days that were good and productive and fun. There were days that were fine and nothing and okay. There were days that were bad and angry and full of grief.
But then came the days of nothing.
Nothing moved the needle. Nothing made me happy or sad or angry or excited. Nothing made me hungry or full. Nothing became the constant. And then soon there was nothing but the voice.
So, I leaned into the silence. I retreated into my head and took a machete to the overgrown places. I stuck my hands deep into the dry soil to till the earth. I cleaned and scrubbed and fought the monsters.
I’m still here. Still trying. Still fighting. Still planting and pruning.