There was a time when I moved among the world’s noise, squandering my days in the company of others and their endless pursuits. That world has long since forgotten me. Perhaps it believes me dead — and in truth, I cannot say it is wrong. I have withdrawn so completely that I no longer belong to its hours, its urgencies, its restless heartbeat.
If the world imagines me gone, I feel no need to correct it. There is no deceit in letting it believe what, in essence, is true: I am dead to it. The clamor of ambition, the chase for favor and recognition — all of it has faded into a distant murmur I no longer hear.
Now I dwell apart, in stillness. The storms of human striving pass far below, and I rest in a quiet realm of my own making. I have built my small heaven from solitude, love, and song. Here, untouched by the world’s tumult, I am not dead but alive in a different way — alive in the pure, unbroken silence where only the music of the soul remains.
