Echoes of a Quiet Mind

I don’t know why I’m writing this, but maybe it’ll make sense once I get it all down. Or

maybe it won’t.

It’s always the little things. The things no one else notices, but that I can’t shake. I think

that’s the part that gets to me the most — the things I can’t explain but feel so familiar to

me. It’s like there’s this constant sound in the background of my life, and everyone else

is just too busy or too “normal” to hear it. I don’t even know how to describe it.

Like when I’m in class, and everyone’s talking, but I’m just there, drifting in and out of

their conversations. I smile when I’m supposed to, laugh at the right moments, but none

of it feels real. It’s like I’m outside of it all, watching from a distance. I’ll try to focus on

what someone’s saying, but my mind just won’t let me. I’ll find myself staring at the way

the light falls on the floor or how someone’s fingers tap against the table. There’s this

small, weird part of me that wants to stay in those little details, because they make more

sense than anything else. The world, all its noise and chatter, feels too much. But the

details? They’re quiet. They’re mine.

And then there’s the feeling of always being different, of never quite fitting. People ask

me why I don’t want to go out more, or why I spend so much time alone in my room.

They don’t get it. I don’t not want to be around people, it’s just that… it’s too loud.

Everything is too loud, and I need to retreat into the silence to breathe. But I can’t say

that. It’s not something anyone wants to hear.

I don’t know how to explain this, but sometimes I feel like I’m walking through my life

with a mask on. It’s not that I’m pretending, exactly. It’s more like I’m performing a role

because it’s easier than showing people what’s behind it. It’s easier than explaining why

I can’t always look someone in the eyes or why sometimes the sound of too many

voices in one room makes my chest feel tight. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I

know that it’s there. And every time someone asks if I’m okay, I smile and lie because

they wouldn’t understand.

I think that’s why I’m writing this. To remind myself that I’m not crazy. That these little

things that make me feel alone — like how I get lost in the small details of a room or

how being around too many people makes my skin feel like it’s crawling — are just parts

of me. They’re not things I should hide. They’re things that make me me. And for once,

I’m letting myself accept that.

Maybe that’s what makes me feel understood — the fact that I don’t need anyone else

to understand me. Not really. I don’t need the validation or the explanations. Just

knowing that these oddities — these strange, tiny things that no one else notices — are

mine, and I’m not broken for having them, is enough.

Written by W.L.