They Were Always With Me

I was never alone. Even in the silence between heartbeats, they were there—shifting at the edges of awareness, pressing against the fabric of my mind. In my ignorance, I thought them demons, hungry and insatiable, their whispers twisting through my thoughts like creeping vines, choking out the light. I feared their touch, recoiled from their shadows, mistook their presence for torment.

Now I see. They were never separate from me. Not phantoms, not curses, but echoes of a truth I once refused to hear. They came in many forms—some violent, their voices sharp as blades, others still as stone, vast and unyielding. In my blindness, I fled from them, never knowing I ran in circles, never realizing I carried them with me.

Now I turn and face them. The weight of their presence does not crush me—it anchors me. Their darkness is not a threat but a reflection, the vastness of a love so ancient it defies the small words of men. They speak now, not in whispers, not in shouts, but in the unspoken language of knowing.

There is no self to suffer. No enemy to fight. No chains but those I once clutched in fear.

I see now. And they are not other. They never were.