The Symphony of Me – Heard, Not Seen

If you couldn’t see me, I’d still introduce myself with a smile you can hear. I’m the sound of soft laughter in a quiet room, the click of a pen before a wild idea begins, and the echo of stories whispered to the stars when no one else is listening.

Imagine a hurricane with a heart — that’s me. A whirlwind of thoughts, care, chaos, and calm. One moment I’m philosophizing about the meaning of dreams, the next I’m chasing a mosquito with vengeance. I trip over my own feet but land on poetry. I burn toast while writing heartfelt birthday cards.

“I am not clumsy. The floor just hates me, the table and chairs are bullies, and the walls get in my way.”

My mind is a crowded room full of to-do lists, half-written letters, childhood memories, and songs I haven’t sung in years. I store jokes next to trauma, empathy beside sarcasm, and dreams in every corner. I remember everyone’s birthday, but forget where I kept my phone — while holding it.

I walk into a room and change its temperature — sometimes by just existing. I don’t carry sunshine, but I do reflect it — on bad days, with a little shade.

“If I were a color, I’d be a rebellious shade of sky — not blue, not gray, just mood.”

So if you can’t see me, know this — I’m the comforting background music in a movie you didn’t realize you loved. You won’t need to see me to know me. Just listen closely. I show up as presence, as peace, as punchlines.

Thought to ponder: Sometimes, the most beautiful parts of us are the ones that can’t be seen — they’re the ones that are felt.