Literature
Invisible to the World
There are seasons in a life when the world does not so much reject you as it simply fails to register your presence—like ink written on glass rather than paper, visible only when the light strikes at a particular, merciless angle.
You begin to suspect that you are not unheard, but unreceived. That your words do not vanish; they never arrive. That your existence is not denied by others, but merely uninscribed in their inner lexicon of what is worth noticing. And in this subtle distinction—this almost metaphysical administrative error—you begin to dissolve.
I learned to walk through days as one traverses an unindexed page of a vast and indifferent manuscript. People passed me like weather passes over stone: not cruelly, not kindly, simply according to laws that have no obligation to acknowledge the solitary object beneath them. Conversations unfolded nearby, yet never quite with me; laughter erupted like a language I could translate but never inhabit. Even silence, which once felt like
