They sit,

usually with their hands between their legs

or nervously scratching the skin off their fingertips

painfully observant of the noise around them

in loud rooms their hearts beat fast

and in the quiet safety of their homes they move with delicate steps

its not that they are scared of life

or that they dont want it all,

the late nights spent roaming the town,

the dinner with friends, when theres more laughing than not laughing,

being the one to tell the joke

its just that life never seemed to present itself to them like that

they always felt like life was like these two huge, heavy, wooden doors

that only ever opened themselfs a tiny bit

so that to fit through they had to make themselfs very small

and breath all of the air out of their lungs to fit through,

so instead of chasing something that was so obviously not for them,

they went searching for other worlds

other realities

that were kinder and more welcoming,

that opened the doors widely and withouth hesitation.

they walk through this life,

the quiet ones,

searching for something others dont need to search for

and in that search they become rich and full of life

their thoughts deepen

they think and think

and the last thought they ever have

is the one telling them :

think no more.

And from that day they join the cult of the quiet ones

who sit quiet along dinner tables,

listen more than they speak

who exist in the spaces between words,

and if you were to catch their eye,

you’ll be met by a curiously observing look

and not before long,

a nervous

welcoming smile.