Dreaming In Whispers

I grew up in a home where stars fell like ash, where breath itself suffocated my young body. A place where gravity intensified and the sun scorched all it could see.

It is here that I learned to dream in whispers.

Day after day, I collected these small, fragile dreams like catching rain in a barrel. Like a ration of water in a dying summer.

Night after night, I curled into my bed next to the softest embrace of the void.

In a world where it seemed that everything fell, the embrace of nothing whispered this truth: the experience of falling is relative to the observer.

And suddenly I could trace the constellations where the stars used to pulse.

My collective whispers now my ink, I could draw maps out of absence, make meaning from what could be, even if the light no longer shined.

There exists no power in this world that can silence decades of dreaming whispers.