I fell on my back, without strength, without any will to get up, as if every attempt to stand had been abandoned in some ancient sigh. The astral ground, that strange and shifting matter, gently bent beneath my weight, without resistance, like a dead sea, frozen in an unhealthy calm, welcoming not with tenderness but with indifference. And I let myself be rocked. Not to be comforted. But because there was nothing else to do. Because exhaustion had replaced every other sensation.
Then, without warning, without control, without filter, I screamed.
Not once.
Not twice.
But again. And again. And again. Like a wild pulsation. Like a scream that no longer sought to be heard but to be expelled. To force out what could no longer come out. What my flesh still wanted to hold onto, in a final reflex of integrity. What my throat no longer knew how to contain: the fire, the shame, the grief, the hatred. Everything that had boiled for too long in silence, too deeply to find a language.
