Author’s Note

There’s a kind of silence that isn’t peaceful.

It isn’t chosen.

It’s something you fall into—slow at first, then all at once. A place where thoughts don’t stop, but somehow words disappear.

This piece came from that feeling.

From trying to speak and finding nothing there. From sinking into your own mind, adjusting to the pressure, and realizing that even when the weight lifts… something hasn’t fully returned.

Sometimes it’s not about being overwhelmed.

Sometimes it’s about becoming too used to the quiet.

— Rowan Evans

Still Can’t Speak
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Silence.

I’ve been sitting in silence,
slipping into thoughts
like quicksand.

I panic—
and sink faster.

I open my mouth,
but no sound comes out,
words lost in the abyss
of endless thought.

Descending.

Diving deeper
into the unknown
far below,
waves crash above—

I open my mouth again,
take water into my lungs.

Silence.

Far below the waves.

Looking up,
I see the sun filter
through the surface—
light displaced,
scattered rays.

Without a sound,
I’m never found.

So there,
on the bottom,
among the wreckage
of ships long forgotten—

I sit with silence,
waiting for the end.

I can feel
the pressure build,
my bones
growing weak.

I feel like I’m adapting,
or something worse
is happening.

The pressure lessens—
no lesson,
something is amiss.

I shouldn’t be
so used to this.

The waves recede,
I can breathe—

and yet…

I still can’t speak.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]