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On the Things We Do Not Say

On the Things We Do Not Say "The rest is silence." —Shakespeare, Hamlet There are moments—arriving usually when the kettle is just beginning to hiss, or the rain has finally committed itself to the evening, settling against the glass with that particular, unhurried permanence that makes the indoors feel like a confession —that a sentence forms. It rises with a sudden, absolute certainty; it gathers the breath, demands to be spoken, and then, in the precise fraction of a second before it breaches the lips, it is quietly, deliberately killed just behind the teeth. We clamp our jaws shut. We offer the smile (the particular smile, the one requiring entirely too many muscles, the one that fools nobody, least of all ourselves). We let it go. It dies there. And something in it, paradoxically, lives. One must speak one's truth! they insist—loudly, persistently, with the evangelical certainty of those who have never once considered that to beat the air with...
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The Still Life of a Paperclip


Photo by Patrick Ladner on Unsplash
More Than a Paperclip

Tucked beside notepads and sealed envelopes, the shape was clear. A crescent of metal, looped in patience. Purpose defined: to hold things together. Neat. Precise. Expected.

But hands — oh, the hands never just needed neatness.

Pulled apart. Straightened. Bent into hooks, lock picks, tiny prying fingers. Used to press reset buttons on ancient gadgets or dig out stubborn dirt from under tired nails. Once turned into makeshift jewelry, a charm swinging from a threadbare string.

And in those moments, something stirred. A thrill, maybe. The pulse of being more. Or... less?

The Strain of Becoming

Because for every use outside of holding paper, there came a strain. A small rebellion of steel. Not loud. But aching.

The thing about purpose — it's silent. Assigned before there was even a question. But desire? Desire arrives late. It whispers. It dares.

Was it wrong to enjoy the stretch? To feel almost proud, being shaped into a key when all others failed? Was it betrayal, or becoming?

After the Bend

Eventually, the bends stayed. That perfect curl never quite returned. Still trying to hold pages, but now off-center. A little looser. Sometimes slipping.

"You're not what you used to be," someone once said, tossing it aside.

Was it a failure, then? Or freedom?

The Quiet Want

All things are born with a function. Few are asked what they want. Fewer still are allowed to answer.

But even now — bent, scarred, slightly rusting — still here. Still waiting to be chosen. Still wondering what it means to be useful… and if that's the same as being enough.

"Because maybe, just maybe, the things we weren’t meant for are the ones that teach us what we truly are."

Copyright © 2025 Sheen Jinee - All Rights Reserved.

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Forever reshaping my words, I write in a space that's always shifting. Here you're welcome to step in, linger, and find a piece of yourself between the lines. ✒️

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