Unwritten Roads

The Home Before Words
Where a Thousand Suns Sleep


The dusk peeks curiously one last time from behind the curtain.
I lie with half-closed eyes, watching the inevitable descent —

tiny suns by the thousands, with weary, humble rays —
yellow, pink, with a pure transparency and an unguarded, guileless face.
And I know there is nothing to say —
I sit in silence and wait for the darkness to wrap around the room,
and with it — to wrap around me.
And I also know that I will dance with my thoughts through the night,
that it will lead me — and I will follow,
far from the kingdom of dreams,
because I do not sleep.
I don’t know when it began —
perhaps since I can remember —
and I remember only the constant:
“Go to sleep, go to sleep… Why aren’t you sleeping yet?”
…my mother’s worried gaze,
the doctor’s puzzled eyes,
the metal, tangled tails of the electrodes,
so cleverly disguised in a rainbow of colors.
And I am there,
hearing the soft beeping of the monitors,
not understanding,
for their worry feels misplaced.
But the doctor’s furrowed brow,
on his young and serious face,
reads a different version of my sleepless story.
He sees letters I cannot read
in the waves and numbers and shapes on the screen —
to me, they blur into one,
but to him, they speak.
A story, perhaps?
Or maybe a riddle —
one of those Mama reads to me,
the ones I never manage to solve.
Inside me,
it feels as if a thousand suns have been scattered —
dancing,
kissing their own galaxy
in an endless, repeating rhythm of night and day…
Am I sleeping inside my memories?
Somewhere,
I drift between the hours —
a place where time doesn’t speak,
where no clocks tick,
no shadows stretch.
I feel the hush of a world holding its breath.
Sometimes I wonder
if others hear the faint music
beneath the silence —
a trembling echo,
a lullaby forgotten
or a memory not yet lived.
It wraps around me like a whisper,
as if something waits,
hidden in the folds of night —
not darkness, not light,
but something older than both.
It’s something that has always been there —
sleeping,
lulled by the softness of night,
not lost, but forgotten.
A knowing.
A skill that once bloomed in every soul —
yearning now, in stillness,
to be remembered,
to be touched again.
It is a feeling no one feels anymore —
because we have forgotten how to feel it.
We traded it
for the cold machinery of ownership,
for dreams grown greedy,
for the sharp hunger of more,
more, always more —
until we no longer remembered
what it meant to simply be.
To breathe.
To create.
To hear the cosmic melody
that once wove through every living thing.
And now —
something stirs.
Not loud,
not sudden,
but like the softest brush against canvas —
light gathering in gentle strokes,
tender and almost unseen,
as if a painter is dreaming her into color.
It begins not in the mind,
but somewhere deeper —
in the marrow,
in the breath,
in that quiet space between heartbeats
where stars might still be born.
It is like standing at the threshold
of a garden wild and overgrown,
filled with flowers that no one planted
and colors that have no names.
Or like catching sight
of a rooftop through morning mist —
a home you’ve only visited in dreams,
yet your feet know the path.
And something inside her
whispers not in words,
but in warmth —
as if a long-lost light
has remembered her name.
She does not move.
The moment does not ask her to.
It is enough to stand here,
on the edge of knowing —
barefoot in the silence,
wrapped in the hush
that carries no questions,
only presence.
The air feels thick with meaning,
like a pause in a song
where the next note is still becoming.
She can feel it —
not as memory,
not as thought,
but as a warmth that gathers in the chest,
as if something is unfolding
just beneath the skin.
The room is still,
but she is no longer only here.
Something greater has begun to breathe through her —
softly,
like the dawn.
The veil lifts,
not with a sound,
but like light spilling through silk.
Her soul begins to sing —
not a melody she’s heard before,
and yet it lives inside her
as if it had always been there.
Is it music?
Is it color?
Perhaps both.
Perhaps neither.
Her heart is too full to name it.
Is it me?
Is it you?
Is it us?
The question fades —
because it no longer matters.
They are bathed in sunlight,
vibrant and new,
and yet impossibly ancient —
familiar like the warmth of a forgotten home.
Tears come,
but not from sorrow.
They rise like rain from grateful earth —
tears of joy,
of remembering,
of release.
The weight is gone.
The ache of longing,
the ache of never sleeping,
the ache of being apart —
it has all melted away.
The déjà vu has lifted.
All is clear.
Love.
Kindness.
Forgiveness.
Everything pulses with it —
every breath,
every shimmer of color,
every heartbeat,
shared.
And somewhere far away,
the doctor’s brow softens.
Mama smiles in her sleep.
They feel it too —
a peace that asks nothing.
She is sleeping now.
Truly sleeping.
And dreaming —
not in fear,
not in fragments,
but whole.
No pills.
No wires.
No tests.
Only harmony.
Only beauty.
Only love.
And the prophecy?
Perhaps it was never lost —
only waiting.
Waiting for someone to remember
that we were never meant to be apart.
That we are always one —
and always,
together.
Inside me,
a thousand suns are scattered.
They dance.
They sing.
They paint the skies of a home
I have always known —
but only now remember.
A home made of light,
of breath,
of color.
A home where I am not alone.
Where we are never alone.
And here,
in this dreaming,
I am finally awake.
❧