"Ritual of the Silence That Sees"
Everything beyond me may move.
I am the axis around which it happens.
I am in the center.
I do not react.
I see.
Silence is my field.
In it, I see everything.
In it, nothing can surprise me.
I return,
but I remain aware.
“The Tale of Choices Sealed by Time”
Part One — Trapped in the Past
She was beautiful.
Her skin carried the scent of warmth.
Her hair, soft as dawn’s silk, fell over her shoulders
as she sat at the easel mixing paints.
The sun slipped through the window,
touching her hand
where a streak of blue remained.
He — the man who loved her —
would sometimes lean in
and kiss that place.
Without asking.
As if he wished to taste the paint with her.
She was a wife.
She was a mother.
She was the queen
of her own rhythm.
And he… wrapped her
in the kind of silence she understood.
He would hand her a warm blanket
when she read.
He sat beside her
the way she liked —
as though their quiet
was the fullest sound.
Yet in the background,
barely audible,
another voice began to seep in.
Cold.
Dry.
Certain
of its own righteousness.
“You’re not yourself.”
“This isn’t success.”
“This is dependence.
The luxury of dependence.”
She trembled.
Not from cold.
From the question
she never asked.
What if it was true?
Doubts That Enter Through the Door of the Heart
Julia had everything —
except certainty.
And uncertainty
can pry open
any locked door.
She worked in a kindergarten.
Not because she loved children.
Not because she wished to.
But because everywhere she turned
she heard the same words:
“A woman should work.”
“Without a job contract, you’re not complete.”
“Staying at home is dependence.”
So every day she rose,
walked into a room
full of cries and colors,
and smiled —
even though inside
she carried only weariness
and rebellion.
She did not like children.
But she had no courage
to admit this —
not even to herself.
Because she had her own.
Because “good mothers
love children.”
Only her heart
did not beat
among blocks and clay.
It beat
at the easel.
In the pull of the brush.
In the scent
of fresh paint.
But she stopped
listening to herself.
She began
listening to others.
A psychologist
with a voice
sharp as an alarm bell
told her:
“Fifteen years without a career?
Without independence?
Your husband is controlling you —
you just don’t see it yet.”
Friends added:
“You want to be only a mother?”
“You’re achieving nothing.”
“Imagine yourself at retirement.
Who will you be?”
“You can’t stand still.
You must move forward.”
And Julia,
who only a week before
tasted paint on her lips,
now tasted only
the bitter dust
of comparison.
She began to hurry.
To compare.
To lose herself.
Not because she wanted to leave —
but because she feared
she had stayed
in one place
too long.
She changed jobs.
Instead of painting,
she counted hours.
Instead of walking
with her daughters,
she returned home
with a headache
and swallowed anger.
She was supposed
to become someone.
She felt
like no one.
He tried
to hold her:
“You can return
to what you love.”
“I can take on more.”
“You don’t have to prove
anything
to the world.”
But it was already
too late.
The world’s voice
was louder.
It sounded
like truth.
And then,
one day…
…she left.
When the Castle Becomes a Cage
At first
it was only
a strange sensation.
As if the world
she knew
were drifting away
slowly,
without a cry,
without farewell.
Massages disappeared.
Warm baths
in the jacuzzi
disappeared.
The silk sheets
vanished.
A market blanket remained,
clinging to her skin
at night.
Instant coffee remained.
Discount prosecco,
sipped alone
from a plastic cup,
remained.
The most painful
were the hair.
Once brushed daily
by a stylist’s gentle hands —
now dyed
with the cheapest box color,
bought with the hope
that “maybe no one
will notice.”
There was no longer
anyone
“to be beautiful for.”
And when she looked
in the mirror,
she did not see
herself.
She saw a woman
who had disappeared.
Mark —
her former husband —
did not remain alone.
He did not
search for love.
But it came.
Anna.
Bright.
Warm.
Gentle.
She embraced
Julia’s children
as if they were
her own.
She cooked
their favorite meals.
She listened
to them.
She was
a home.
She was the light
that entered
where Julia
had extinguished
the lamps.
And Julia understood,
watching from afar:
It was not Anna
who won.
It was she
who lost.
Because when she
had everything —
she listened
to the world
instead of her heart.
The Time of Departure
She left
alone.
With one suitcase.
With a muffler
pressed
against her heart.
She worked
as a cleaner.
She lived
in a narrow room
with a cold floor.
She painted
only
in her thoughts.
Her face
in the mirror —
unfamiliar.
Her scent —
laundry detergent
and rubber gloves.
When she lost
her job,
there was nowhere
to go.
No one
to ask.
Then came
the man
from the factory.
He invited her
to dinner.
Gave her
a sense of space.
Gave her
silk bedding.
Gave her
a home —
with conditions.
She was welcome there,
but never
on her own terms:
Smiling.
Available.
Grateful.
Quiet.
Flawless.
Desirable.
She was allowed
to paint —
but he would only
wave his hand
and say:
“Funny.
But nothing
will come of it.”
And yet
she painted.
Because only then
she existed.
She visited
her children
like a guest.
And Anna
always stood
in the doorway —
warm,
beautiful,
the one
who belonged
there.
And Julia knew
the cage
had locked itself
long ago.
The Last Step Before Truth
People spoke
about the exhibition.
About paintings
one can feel
in the body.
About an artist
nobody had ever seen —
yet whose presence
vibrated
through the world
of energy.
Julia knew
it would hurt.
Because if she
had chosen differently
back then…
it could have been
her exhibition.
Now she
was only a guest
in her own memory.
She entered
the gallery.
She walked
slowly —
her body
leading the way.
The paintings
breathed.
Until one
stopped her.
It is unclear
who looked first.
A pentagram.
Silver.
Light trapped
in a line.
Title:
“Trapped in the Past.”
And then
she felt
that it was not she
who was looking
at the painting.
It was the painting
looking
at her.
Below —
one sentence.
Do not forget —
every cage
has a key.
– Riah