What the Quiet Keeps

 

 

The quiet keeps what the noise cannot hold.

 

It keeps the thoughts still forming. The feelings that don’t need names. The moments that refuse performance. In the quiet, nothing is required to arrive finished.

 

The quiet keeps memory gently — not the sharp edges, but the weight of what mattered. The sound of voices after they’ve faded. The way light once rested and then moved on.

 

The quiet keeps grief without urgency. It allows sorrow to exist without being explained or corrected. Here, loss is not measured. It is simply held.

 

The quiet keeps truth in fragments. A breath. A pause. A sentence that stops before it resolves. Some truths arrive like this — unfinished, and still enough to stay.

 

The quiet does not hide what it keeps.

It protects it.

 

And when we are ready, it gives back only what we can carry.