Symphony is not in the notes, but in silence. The spaces between every audible lie, the pauses in spoken truths. Invisible, like rain on a parched land, it nourishes without touch. The ugliest truth, often ignored, is its persistence. We dance under an illusion; a tapestry of hope that wears thin with every unrecognized gesture.
The music plays on, indifferent to the listener's ignorance. Invisible, yet so loud in its absence. It echoes through walls of perception, crafting an invisible symphony that remains unheard by the deafened heart. Reality wears a mask of comfort; the ugliest truth is its refusal to disappear.
Unspoken MelodiesHidden Crescendos