I am engaged to silence,  
not serenity, but a quiet pearlescent sorrow that permeates everywhere and everything, accompanying my every movement. It’s as if a needle is slowly killing me day by day, piercing deeper and deeper into the solar plexus, which is physically palpable even when I am still. It seeps out in bloody traces on my wrists every evening before sleep. Scarlet petals drip from my neck, and with closed eyes, I imagine myself on a cliff, covered in waves and sand, surrounded by stones, buried by nature. In the deep green thickets of pastel rowan, covered in moss from head to toe, with bluebells sprouting in my hair, braided into plaits, my hair and the bell, the bell and my hair, sadly ringing with every clash with the wave, until I drown in the depths of the earth beneath the sea. Only the golden remnants of my existence will surface to the shore, bracelets and earrings. the earrings, the very ones that appeared in my mother’s dreams during her pregnancy with me, so she understood she would have a girl. she described them as two perfectly symmetrical drops, shyly shimmering in the sun with turquoise and copper glints, on the shore of the ocean. they would have surfaced first, as the culmination of my arrival into the concept of life, after which I would return to where I was born, from where I came, turning into sea foam and pitifully crashing against the rocks and the lonely lighthouse, signaling my arrival to the solitary figure in the tower. It would be right, for every step I take on this earth truly feels like running on an infinite number of blades, all painfully slicing me from the inside, bottom to top, to my very bloody throat. They scattered salt and shards of past and present lives, smeared along the shore and surface in a line that cannot be crossed. boneless, willingly weak and fragile, a pale spot with candied moles, touch it with a finger and a dent remains. Grasping that white, pliable, transparent, crumbly thing, it will spread along the shore and disappear forever. 
I am betrothed to silence,
I go into the deep forest, look up, and see nothing above. I have visited countless incredibly beautiful places, but I haven’t seen a single one of them. the warm dance of sunlight on the languid roots of ancient trees, my beloved sunbeams. I walk further into the picturesque forest, barefoot, running over violets and brushing my hand over jade grapevines, in this brief hour of winter dawn. I will wander along the path into the unknown and mysterious forest, perhaps joy will meet me on the way. I will adorn myself with a wreath of roses and maple leaves woven by hand, bound by the forest’s gold and silence. And a sound far more exquisite than a crystal chandelier, drowning in the echo of the forest canopy and its detachment from everything else. The music of rustling leaves began to play, the choir of winds sang, but what do I need this conversation for? I am the sole wife of silence. I rush towards sorrow, into my icy crystal house, engulfed by the tremor of blue melancholy and loneliness. With his cold, empty hands, he wraps around my waist, holding my face like an eye with both palms. A cold season awaits me, and let the cold of the earth, the blizzards pass through me, leaving behind the lost gold in shards at the threshold of my cold-blooded kingdom. I do not need help or salvation; such is the constancy of my suffering. 
I am betrothed to silence,  
I walk further into the noise of crowded streets, soaked in the scent of fresh pastries and echoes of the youthful laughter of my so happy peers. passing by stalls with herbariums in frames hanging over the potted flowers, such is the fate of every living being, reminding themselves in the deafening moments of self-torture, and taking them in moments of exhaustion. The music of a street singer plays, a Frenchman by the looks of it, I want to listen closely, but at the moment of attentiveness to the sound, the needle penetrates deeper than before, reminding me of its position in a vulnerable place and existence. 
He plays incredibly beautifully, and the smell of baked goods is enticing, and laughter draws me in, but I cannot enjoy it, for I am true to my sorrow, and I cannot betray it with happiness. On the ring finger, a bloody ring that cannot be removed even with strength, and there isn’t enough intention or courage. Pulling it off my hand, it digs deeper into the bones, and blood drips from my hands and fingers, giving rise to my words written by weary hands. In moments of clarity, it tightens even more, even now, as I ask God for help sitting on the edge of the bed with my bloodied palms clasped, it does not give, does not allow, squeezing my hopes for light into something resembling prose. 
I am betrothed to silence, but of course, a divorce is awaiting.