Every night, as far back as I could remember,
I shiver. I cry myself to sleep.
It was the only way I knew how to fall asleep,
The only feeling I knew.

Tears are my friends. Each tear is a story,
A real life tale with colorful characters,
And the self I only knew through struggle, pain
And a mind separate of the body.
What I knew was not what I did.

The environment was hell, and the characters lost.
There was no writer, nor a script.
It was always impulse, reaction to an escape
Of a struggle within a struggle.
There was no time to pause.
A moment of reset could not be found.

I do not count sheep, I peeled tears.
I escaped so far away,
I lost the captain seat of my body and actions.
Born autistic, with no diagnosis.
Literally forced yourself to speak,
But words don’t come out right.

Born in a family of migrants,
Trapped in a civil war.
Unwelcomed anywhere.
At home, at school, outside in the neighborhood.
The only escape is the mind.

Every obstacle overcome was never good enough.
Constantly chasing normal.
And in my mind I know.
Yes, everyone is constantly chasing normal.
And we are all tired.

Can I be me? Can I find me beneath the graffiti?
Live your life. And I’ll live mine. A dream.
Can I live my life?
Mine will always include tears and smiles.
But know that my voice is mute.

I am too scared to speak my mind.
Always beaten whenever I spoke from the heart.
The soul is the only dialogue. Loud or mute.

At the end of each day,
All of the grima from the excessive stimulation,
A volcano inside is ready to erupt.
I take a very deep breath,
To bring light into the volcano, and simply live.

I escape for a fresh breath of another day.
The only possible faith, and only choice,
Is to believe in today, and in tomorrow.

Living such a life, God can only be found
In little moments. Not some place far away,
Nor living in my house.
I am in his house, and therefore,
He is in my moments.

The Silent Storytellers

Isn’t it striking how our deepest pains can become our closest companions? This piece paints a vivid picture of a life where tears aren’t just sadness, but a nightly ritual, a form of expression, even a kind of friend.

In “Being and Nothingness,” Sartre writes, “Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.”

Think about those tears being stories. It’s like what the psychologist James Pennebaker discovered about expressive writing – sometimes, putting our struggles into a narrative can be incredibly healing. Each tear is a word in that unspoken story.

The idea of being “born autistic, with no diagnosis” – that’s hitting on something profound about the experience of neurodiversity. It’s like what autistic author Donna Williams described as being an “alien among humans,” trying to navigate a world that doesn’t quite fit.

And that constant chasing of “normal”? It’s not just about fitting in. It’s tapping into what sociologist Erving Goffman called “stigma management” – this exhausting process of trying to present a socially acceptable self to the world.

The question “Can I be me?” – that’s not just self-doubt talking. It’s like what psychologist Carl Rogers meant when he talked about the gap between our “real self” and our “ideal self.” When that gap gets too wide, we lose touch with who we really are.

Now, the idea of God being found in little moments – that’s hitting on something deep about spirituality. It’s like what the philosopher Martin Buber meant when he talked about “I-Thou” moments, these flashes of genuine connection that can feel almost divine.

In addition, the word’s exploration of finding God in little moments (“Living such a life, God can only be found / In little moments”) resonates with Sartre’s atheistic existentialism, which posits that in the absence of a predetermined essence or divine plan, humans must create their own meaning. This idea is mirrored in the poem’s focus on finding meaning and connection in small, everyday experiences despite overwhelming challenges.

So what does all this mean? Well, maybe it’s about recognizing the strength in our struggles. It’s about seeing that our tears, our fears, our differences – they’re all part of our unique story.

Remember, every tear is a testament to your survival. Every silent scream is a sign of your strength. As the poet Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” Your struggles aren’t just obstacles – they’re part of what makes you, you.

So next time those tears come, let them tell their story. Let them be the words you can’t speak, the emotions you can’t express any other way. Because in those tears, in those silent moments of struggle and survival, that’s where your true voice lives. And that voice? It’s beautiful, it’s powerful, and it deserves to be heard – even if it’s only you who can hear it.