Silendesires

  

            Silendesires

                                                       (Between silence and desire)

 

 

" Silendesires " poetic , deeply human exploration of how silence can both imprison and liberate the soul.

 

 

Dear Readers,

I invite you into her world………

She lived her life peacefully, as if every step of her day was marked on a map no one else could see. Her mornings began with the clatter of utensils, the rustle of time as she folded and refolded clothes according to their use, the sound of her children waking, and the dutiful gaze of a woman who took her husband’s every command as her law.

There was no apparent wrongdoing—no violence, no cruelty, no neglect that could be openly named. Yet, in the intervals between conversations, in the silence that hung over the dinner table, a quiet heaviness would descend—one that grew unbearable.

She couldn’t tell him everything not because he was cruel, but because he was unheard. The words she spoke to him vanished like drops in the desert—leaving no echo, no reflection. To the world, her husband was a good man—hardworking, diligent, and caring. He was protective; he cared in his own way. Yet in his presence, she often felt invisible, like a shadow lurking at the edge of her own life.

The silence between them was not born of love, but of distance—a failure to reach the quiet corners of her heart. And in that absence, her heart grew restless.

She wasn’t unhappy—not in the way we typically define unhappiness. She had a roof over her head, food to eat, children she loved, and a husband who never raised his voice. And yet, as you and I both know, sometimes the deepest loneliness comes not from a lack of care, but from a lack of recognition.

Have you ever sat across from someone you loved, wanting to speak, but your words drowned in their indifference? That was her life.

She smiled when her husband returned from work. She listened when he shared the small details of his day, but when she tried to open her heart—to share the poem she had written in a stolen moment, or the nightmare that still haunted her sleep—her eyes revealed neither passion nor joy. He wasn’t cold, or cruel, or dismissive; he simply could not enter the inner chambers of her being.

And so, Dear Readers, a silence fell between them—as if an unwelcome guest had overstayed his visit. A silence that consumed his nights, spread into his mornings, and became their life.

Now, you may ask: Why would a married woman let another man into her heart?

Let me be clear—this was not planned. It wasn’t even desired at first. It wasn’t welcomed. But longing is a strange thing; it thrives in shadows, not in sunlight.

He entered her life in an ordinary way—a coworker, a friend of a friend, perhaps just a familiar face in the neighborhood. He wasn’t the hero of a novel, dazzling with charm or wealth. But he possessed something rare—he listened.

And as he listened, something stirred within her. Not passion at first, nor rebellion, but recognition.

Think for a moment—when was the last time someone truly listened to you? Not to reply, not to judge, not to offer solutions—but simply to listen.

“Do you remember how free you used to feel once? How work used to tire you, but never burden you?” That was his discovery.

Yes, she knew it was dangerous. Yes, she knew society would call her unfaithful. But, Dear Readers, sometimes the human heart follows hunger, not rules—and she was starving.

Frankly speaking, marriage—despite all its promise—is also made of monotony: an endless cycle of cooking, cleaning, raising children, and paying bills. Days turn into weeks; weeks into years.

Her husband was loyal, hardworking, and trustworthy—but his touch had become a duty, his words a ritual, his presence a shadow.

And in the monotony of it all, her body rebelled. Hormones surged, desires stirred, and longings suppressed for years reawakened. This is not sin, dear readers; it is the meeting of physiology and emotion. A woman is not made only of patience—she is made of flesh and fire.

Reluctantly, helplessly, she allowed herself to drift toward the man who saw her differently. Not because she hated her husband, but because she longed to feel alive again.

The cruelest truth is this: she could not tell her husband anything.

Not because she lacked courage, but because she already knew the outcome. If she spoke of her loneliness, he would brush it off with logic. If she spoke of boredom, he would point to responsibilities. If she spoke of desire, he might laugh or dismiss her as foolish.

So she swallowed her words. She wore her silence like a second skin. To the world, she was the perfect wife. But inside, she was crumbling.

Dear Readers, do you see? Sometimes betrayal begins not with a choice, but with an inability to breathe. When a heart cannot find air in its own home, it seeks windows elsewhere.

And so it all began—slowly, with the passion of affection. A touch, a secret encounter that held both the thrill of fear and the comfort of intimacy. She lived two lives: one visible to her family, and one known only to her heart.

Did she feel guilty?

Absolutely—but the guilt was lighter than the hunger to feel visible again.

In the end, she will tell you—and I will echo her—that she fell into this not because she was immoral, but because she was human.

Her last confession, spoken in a voice both harsh and tender, was this:

“I didn’t look for love outside because my husband was unkind. I looked for it because I was drowning—and someone finally held out a hand. I didn’t want to escape; I wanted to breathe. And if the world condemns me, let it. All I ask is that someone, somewhere, understand that silence can be a prison—and that recognition is liberation…!”

Dear Readers, let us pause and step back into those mornings. Imagine her rising before dawn, her body already weary though she has barely slept. She guards the rhythm of her household—preparing breakfast, folding clothes into neat piles, packing lunches, ticking off that invisible checklist no one else sees.

Everyone praises her efficiency. Neighbors call her reliable. Her children call her trustworthy. Her husband calls her “strong.”

And yet, she wonders:

Why doesn’t anyone call her gentle?
Why doesn’t anyone ask about her desires?
Why doesn’t anyone see the yearning hidden in her heart?

She seeks affection, not power. She hides her heart because the world cannot bear to see it.

Often, after everyone has left, she sits on the edge of the bed, presses her palms to her face, and whispers, “Is this all there is….? Is this all I have…….?”

Dear Readers, can you now understand her state of mind? Why that door of temptation opened?

The first time she laughed with him—truly laughed—she startled herself. Not because she had forgotten how, but because she realized how shallow her usual laughter had become. With her husband, laughter was polite, confined within safe boundaries. With her children, it was bright but fleeting. With friends, it hid behind jokes and restraint.

But with him—it burst from her chest like an old song she had buried.

That frightened her. She returned home restless—angry at herself, at him, at the world that had created this fracture in her fortress of silence.

She told herself, “Never again…!”

But, Dear Readers, when has the heart ever followed strict orders?

Desire isn’t always fire. Sometimes its water—slow, patient, carving caves into stone.

He simply asked her, “How are you, really…?”
And in that question was the invitation she had been waiting for.

Yes, hormones, even physiology, played their part. Her body was alive—yearning to be seen, touched, and respected. But her longing wasn’t only physical………. It was for recognition ……..the joy of not being invisible.

And so, even though she didn’t mean to, she allowed herself to drift.

Dear Readers, tell me honestly—would you have protested?

This is her paradox: she wanted to stop, yet she didn’t. She moved toward him on trembling legs, knowing she should turn away, but unable to.

Why…..? Because he showed her a side of herself she thought had died—a woman who dreamed, who wrote poetry, who felt desirable, full of life, vivid with longing.

Her husband saw her as a pillar in the architecture of their life. This man saw her as a flame.

Willingly or unwillingly—does it matter when the heart decides?

From that point on, her days split in two.
Mornings and evenings belonged to one world—meals, chores, childcare routine……. But within her, another rhythm pulsed: secret phone calls, watchful eyes, hidden messages…….!

How do you judge her? How do you understand her?

Frankly, the world thrives on judging women like her. Men may stray, and society shrugs. But when a woman dares to seek oxygen outside her home, she is crucified.

She knew this—yet she chose oxygen over suffocation.

Dear readers, guilt are not the absence of desire; it is desire wearing the mask of shame.

Some nights she lay beside her husband and cried silently—not because she didn’t love him in her own way, but because she had broken the image of the ideal wife.

She wanted to confess. She rehearsed the words: “I’m lonely. I needed someone to talk to. I’m sorry.” But the words froze on her lips.

How could she hurt a man who had never been cruel?
How could she tell him that goodness is not enough?

And so the silence deepened.

Her body was no longer what it had been in her twenties—childbirth, time, and routine had reshaped her. She often stood before the mirror, tracing stretch marks, tired lines, and the quiet marks of years.

Her husband never praised her—not unkindly, but because he believed she didn’t need it.

But when this other man touched her hand, when his eyes lingered a moment longer, she felt beautiful again—not superficially, but in a sacred way.

And that, Dear Readers, is why she could not turn back.

Ah, don’t pretend. You know it too. Hormones played their part, yes—but the heart is more than chemistry. The female body is not a machine; it is a tide, rising and falling, carrying unspoken needs. And with those needs, her heart rebelled.

Science can explain it in terms of Dopamine and Oxytocin, but it cannot capture the vibration in her soul when his words touched places her husband never could.

It wasn’t just chemistry — it was alchemy.

Dear Readers, you might be wondering:
How did she live with herself? Did she not condemn her own actions? Didn’t she tremble at the thought of being caught?

She trembled, yes — but in the darkness, she whispered to herself:

“I deserve to be alive. I deserve to be seen. I deserve, at least once in my life, to know what it means to be recognized…….?”

This was her justification — not rebellion, not cruelty, but survival.

But, Dear Readers, walls are fragile. They last for a time, and then they begin to crack.

Her husband noticed her absence, her distracted mind, the glow on her face that wasn’t his doing. He didn’t blame her; he simply tightened his grip on their routines, trying to stifle her fire with predictability.
And in that tightening, his suffocation deepened.

Dear readers, let me tell you something important: unspoken pain is heavier than pain endured.

She had endured much — loneliness, invisibility, the quiet abandonment of her most tender self. But what broke her most was that she couldn’t express it. Every time she tried, her words faltered for fear of being misunderstood.

You may ask, “Why didn’t she speak up? Why didn’t she tell her husband?”

But have you ever tried to pour your soul into a vessel that cannot hold it? Her husband’s ears were closed; his heart was steady, but incurious.

So she hid her pain in silence — until silence became her second skin. And when another man said, “Tell me everything,” her soul poured out like water breaking from a dam.

Whether she wanted to or not, she turned elsewhere. This was not rebellion — it was a search for survival.

Dear readers, let’s face it: a life without curiosity is death disguised as breath.

Her days had become predictable — every gesture known, every emotion rehearsed, every conversation repeated, every desire suppressed. So when curiosity stirred within her again — about herself, her body, her unspoken dreams — it felt like spring after a long winter.

This other man was not her escape; he was her mirror. Through him, she rediscovered forgotten questions:

What keeps me alive?

Who do I still crave?

What lies beyond my everyday life?

She wasn’t chasing passion — she was chasing herself. And can we truly blame a woman for wanting to be reunited with her?

Yes, Dear Readers, she experienced liberation. But liberation is never easy; it brings its own shackles.

Each secret meeting gave her wings — and yet, when she returned home, those wings felt like betrayal. She folded them neatly beneath her clothes, hidden among her secret poems, as though they didn’t exist.

Understand this: she never stopped loving her husband. Her love, care, and devotion to her family remained. But love has many forms — and hers could not satisfy all of her hungers.

So she lived in duality: secretly free, openly chained.

Dear Readers, desire is delicate. It burns hot, but it also burns out.

There were days when she looked into the mirror and asked: “What am I doing….? Is this me….? Is this betrayal, or is it truth…?” She felt ashamed…….. She felt thrilled……… She felt guilty…….. She felt alive — and dead — in the same breath………!

In that web of contradictions, she finally understood what it means to be human: we are not made of single truths, but of contradictory ones.

Her greatest fear was not justice, but loss.

If she stopped, she would lose herself.
If the truth came out, she would lose her family.
If her secret was exposed, she would lose the man who had helped her feel seen.

She carried that fear like another heartbeat.
Even as she smiled at the dinner table, drove her children to school, lit the evening lamp — there was a tremor inside her: “What if it all falls apart….?”

And yet she did not stop — because fear, strangely, only intensified desire.

Dear readers, shall we speak plainly?
Her body was demanding, too. Not just her heart, but her mind. Physiology had its own script, written deep in her blood and bones.

With him, hormones surged — Dopamine, Oxytocin, and Adrenaline. Science could measure it medically, but she felt it poetically. Every glance, every touch, every secret word was a spark of electricity that kept her alive.

Now you understand — this wasn’t just romance.
It was an unending tide of chemistry, psychology, biology, and desire.

But no tide flows forever.

Dear readers, secrets are exhausting. First they excite you, and then they consume you.
She began to tire — of hiding her phone, of rehearsing lies, of pretending her glow came from a new dress or a sudden hobby. And yet, she feared losing the one thing that made her heart beat differently.

It’s a cruel paradox: she was too tired to continue, but too afraid to stop.

One night, she looked at her sleeping husband — his face softened by dreams, his hand reaching unconsciously toward her — and she wept.

Not because he had wronged her, but because she realized how impossible it is to be perfect. To be a wife, a mother, a woman, a lover — all at once.

She regretted it, but not in the way you might think. She didn’t regret the love she’d received — she regretted the emptiness that had made it necessary.

Dear Readers, this is where her story turns toward you.

If she were sitting before you now, she wouldn’t ask for your approval or your sympathy. She would ask only for your listening — the very thing she had been craving all her life.

She would say: “I did it willingly, because I wanted to feel alive. I did it reluctantly, because……..! Life gave me no better choice. I couldn’t share my pain, because I was taught to remain silent. I couldn’t live inside routine, because routine is a slow death. I couldn’t deny my body, because it carries my soul. And in the end, I didn’t betray love — I did it in silence. Because even forbidden love gave me back myself…!”

Dear readers, this is her confession.
And perhaps — if you receive it gently — it may become yours too.