Fragments Beneath the Quiet

Hello Vocals, I’m back to the local, just as I promised.

The thunderstorm sang its thunderstroke like a bullet from a distant gun, crossing hundreds of miles toward the eighth turn of the painting.

An unfinished ending, yet strangely beautiful.

Now, let’s move to the real topic.

I’ve been busy these days, and as a writer, I’ve been struggling with a few things internally. Sometimes the mind becomes louder than the page itself, and thoughts begin colliding faster than words can contain them. But perhaps that is also part of the craft — carrying storms inside while pretending to shape them into sentences.

At least I still call them sentences, though they feel more like fragments. Or maybe they are simply lines waiting for someone to stop and read them on a virtual page.

I do not really know anymore.

Perhaps words were never meant to live behind screens. Perhaps they belong more to paper, to ink, to the quiet weight of a real page held between human hands.

A digital page stores the text,

but a real page seems to store the presence of the person who wrote it.

But never mind.

I do have some existential things crossing my mind these days. Not in a dramatic way, just… heavier than usual.

I’ve been doing fairly well on the surface, yet I realized I should give more time to my recovery, my health, and my studies. Lately, I have barely been eating. Not because I chose to fast, and not because I truly wanted to punish myself — though sometimes it almost feels that way. Maybe I simply stopped noticing what was happening to me until now.

But I think I care now. Enough to sit in silence and think about many things I kept avoiding. Enough to admit that exhaustion does not always arrive loudly; sometimes it enters quietly and lives inside your habits before you even recognize it.

Perhaps this is not the collapse of a person,

but the moment he finally begins paying attention to himself again.

But I do not think that is entirely it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I have never truly liked complaining about life — neither in writing nor in reality itself. Why should I? We all carry something within us: scars, burns, marks that never fully disappear, and thoughts that keep screaming somewhere inside the mind every single day.

So why should I sit there and write that life destroyed me, as if I were nothing more than a man left broken beneath its weight? And even if it were true, then I would rather drag myself through the dirt than surrender to the comfort of self-pity.

I do not complain.

I panic in silence.

A wise tiger devours the rotten flesh within me while I heal through every wound it leaves behind. With each bite, something corrupted disappears. Something that was never meant to survive begins vanishing from my bones.

I remember my cat licking its fur in absolute stillness, yet somehow remembering my eyes so well — darker than a night swallowing an unfinished cosmos.

Forgive the symbolic expressions.

Perhaps there is something strangely mad within me.

Or perhaps I have simply been training myself to speak through fragments rather than ordinary words.Well, I am still new to English literature, and perhaps that is why I keep focusing more on thoughts, core ideas, and difficult questions rather than perfect linguistic form. In truth, I am still a stranger to this language.

I feel far more natural when I write in Arabic. There is something within it that resembles my breathing, my rhythm, the structure of my own inner voice. Perhaps it is because I am, in part, a son of Semitic language and memory. I have even thought about learning Hebrew someday, not out of confusion, but out of fascination with language itself and the roots hidden beneath words.

But first, I want to make English mine — not academically, but personally. I want to shape it until it can carry my thoughts without betraying their weight.

At the very least, through this language, someone somewhere can still read me.