It begins quietly.
Not with a scream, or a shatter,
but with the soft, sick thud of hope hitting the floor.
The kind of thud you try to ignore,
until it echoes in every corner of your skull.
You build something.
Not just words. Not just ideas.
But meaning, carved out of your marrow.
And you hold it out… trembling, maybe,
but still bold enough to share.
You wait for the world to see the shape of your soul
and say, "Yes. I see it too."
But the world squints.
Misreads it.
Mocks it.
Misses it entirely.
And suddenly, it’s not just the work that feels broken.
It’s you.
You spin out, not in rage, but in resignation.
A quiet resignation, heavier than any fury.
Maybe I’m the problem, you think.
Maybe I’m just not built for this world.
Maybe the song I’m singing
can’t be heard by ears tuned to noise.
You ask, “Is this what happened to Henry Darger?
Am I fool or am I mad?
Why is it so lonely here, in this pit?”
But here’s what the pit never tells you…
it lies.
It says no one will ever understand.
It says your voice is wasted.
It says you were foolish to ever try.
You’ve been shouting into the abyss.
But that’s the pit talking, not truth.
Truth is quieter.
Truth doesn’t shout over the pain.
It just waits.
And when you’re ready,
it hands you the pen again.
Not to fix everything.
Not to be brilliant.
Just to begin.
Even from here.
Even from this hole.
Especially from this hole.
Because anyone can write from the mountaintop.
But only the brave write from the dark.