Gravitatio Behind the Screen

Too many signals. The pace of the world is too sharp. Inside my head: algorithms, numbers, the crushing drive to perform. The mask must stay on—it is what the outside demands, yet inside, the tension creeps straight to the bone. My nervous system is a series of overtightened wires: every expectation another strike, another storm. Behind my own walls I analyze, overthink, control in the dark, while the invisible cage tightens around my throat.

Then a voice breaks through from the other end of the line.

You haven’t touched me yet. I don’t know your weight. I don't know the texture of your skin as you catch your breath. There is only the frequency. The letters. The cold glow of the screen. Yet it’s the only point that reaches deep into the dark. From thousands of miles away you teach me how to breathe, while I begin preparing for a presence I have yet to feel.

The air slowly cools, the year winding down to its end, behind every written line, the threshold trembles in place. I count the passing weeks, the falling of the leaves, the mark set on the calendar, the shift that has to come.

I crave the grip like a final, deliberate plunge. I’m not looking for gentle strokes, but an absolute end to the noise. I want you—when the circle closes and you stand before me— to ask no questions, leave no room for analysis or grace. Just hold me. Pin me down until the armor cracks, let your physical weight be the ultimate trigger.

Press me against the wall, or pull me into the deep, drown the overthinking in the raw taste of the moment. I want another force, another set of hands to finally strip away this overburdened mind. No need to be clever. No need to perform at all. Just losing all control, existing inside the quiet.

When autumn leans into its final, grey chill, I’ll know the silence no longer sings through the screen. Come now. Shatter the frozen shards of distance, and extinguish the deafening roar of the world inside me.