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comforting silence
of the things we left unsaid
blinding quietness
I had such a desire-filled hope. Lust for the future. Consummation. But writing is a process, the continuity of labor. And I wonder if in the writing is the writer, and if the art is in the courage.
Writing for me is akin to casting a spell. But I am not the spell-caster. “Beware of the incantations you tell,” tells me Prudence, cornered in the shadows.
empty page staring
to the universe open
infinitely blank
The emptiness of the world to be filled by something that’s not noise. Terrifying. When I open my mouth, will I sing, or will I shriek?
But how often have I stayed in the infinity of this cosmos? Posted. Immobile. Eyes closed. Not dreaming.
to a void unseen
summoning courage to be
wind rustles the trees
©Pablo Pereyra 2026. Thank you for reading.
Reflecting on Zay Pareltheon’s prompt, it is about returning and revisiting places we hold dear. Writing has been a space of refuge and communion for me. As well as hope and labor. I’ve had days in which I dreamt, and I have almost always labored for these words. Here is the prompt in case you want to follow through:
