Garden of delusions: Vein of Silence

Some wounds make no sound, yet they grow like roots in bone, like blossoms in raw flesh.

Not everything that blooms comes from the light. Sometimes it’s the shadow that germinates, and still insists on flowering. With thorns, with beauty, with blood.

We are made of that interval: between what wounds and what blossoms. Between what we try to contain and what pierces through us anyway.

There is an impulse we cannot control, yet it carries the weight of the entire world.