By Mr. Hereh
The world speaks, but only to those who listen.
I live alone. Not just in my room, but in my mind too. Silence is my closest companion, and I've learned to enjoy its voice. There are days when I don't speak to anyone — and strangely, that feels enough.
On holidays, when the world rushes to fill its time with noise and company, I walk away from the crowd. I go where no one calls my name.
To the riverside.
The path is quiet. The trees lean gently, like they know me. The wind moves through the leaves in slow whispers. I carry no burden, only my thoughts. A joint in my hand, music in my ears — volume full. Not to escape, but to feel deeper.
Weed doesn't silence my thoughts. It opens them. It slows time. The sky looks bigger, the water softer, and the clouds float like forgotten dreams.
I sit by the edge of the river, alone but never lonely.
Sometimes I wonder, does the river ever get tired? Does it ever want to stop and just breathe?
I light another drag. My earbuds hum with soft music — nature mixed with melody, a perfect soundtrack for the moment. I close my eyes, and the world melts into colors. Blue of the sky. Green of the trees. Gold of the sun.
In these moments, I write. Or at least I try.
My notebook lies open beside me. Some pages are filled with half-thoughts and strange lines. Others are blank, waiting. I am not a writer yet — not in the way people define it. But I am learning. Slowly. Gently. Painfully.
I write to understand myself. To put meaning where there is confusion.
To give voice to the quiet.
Sometimes I write about the river.
Sometimes I write about memories — some beautiful, some broken.
Sometimes I just write one true sentence, and that is enough.
> "The world is loud, but my soul is soft."
That's what I wrote today.
I grew up thinking I had to chase something — success, approval, attention. But now, sitting here with no one watching, no one clapping, I feel more myself than I ever did.
People say life is about moving forward. But I think it's also about standing still and watching the light change through the trees. It's about hearing your own heart beat and knowing you are alive.
I don't have many friends. I don't go to parties. I don't talk much. But I feel everything. Maybe too much. And that's why I write.
I am not trying to impress anyone. I just want to be real.
And sometimes, real is quiet. Real is slow. Real is this — a person, a river, a notebook, a song, and a little smoke in the air.
The world sees me as just another face.
But I see the world… like poetry.
And maybe, just maybe, one day these pages will hold something true enough, honest enough, beautiful enough — to be called a story.
This is where my journey begins.