No one tells you
that silence has a temperature—
that it can be taught,
practiced,
passed down
like breath you learn not to take.
But even beauty keeps its secrets.
Even holiness casts shadows.
Men named this land.
Men swore their words were truth
and called it covenant.
I believed them once.
Now I listen instead.
I listen for what moves
beneath the silence—
the way wind moves through a canyon,
the way the desert blooms after rain,
the way the past breathes
when no one is watching.
I do not claim to break the silence.
I have learned what happens
to those who try.
I only listen.
And I understand now—
some truths are not buried to be erased,
but to see
who will carry them
without repeating the lie,
without asking permission,
without needing to speak at all.
Painting is how I listen. Writing is how I answer.