The Ruin Script

i grew up distant. from my family, friends, and people i barely knew. a kind of distant that does not use words, but feeling. growing up, i used to believe that depending meant weakness—and still, to this day, i stand by the same belief.

my parents did not teach me the roman alphabet, not even how to write my own name. i scribbled, and scribbled, and scribbled, relying only on what i observed within the four corners of our classroom. my letters were not letters; they were patterns—marks born out of imitation, not instruction. i would shred my pencil until i could no longer hold it, as if punishing myself for not being able to write my name properly.

my everyday cycle in life was taught by my own observation. i barely spoke. and when i did, i spoke less. if ever i spoke more, i spoke lies—words shaped not to express, but to survive. growing up learning through silence was a kind of lesson no teacher could ever teach. perhaps that was where detachment began—when i learned that understanding didn’t need conversation, that to see was enough, that to feel too deeply was dangerous. observation became my language, my defense, my way of living. and from then on, i began to watch the world from a quiet distance.

detachment, for me, is not coldness. it is a kind of safety. people often mistake it for cruelty, for apathy, but they don’t understand—detachment saves me. because in a world where every touch can wound, distance becomes a kind of mercy. it shields me from the chaos of connection, from the weight of being too involved in things i cannot keep. it is my defense mechanism, my quiet rebellion against a world that demands too much.

this is the art of detachment—the discipline of retreat, the silent act of choosing myself before anyone else. i don’t care if people call it hypocrisy, because i prefer it this way. i would always choose myself. i have been fighting alone for as long as i can remember. when no one came to understand me, i learned to understand myself. when no one stayed, i became my own companion. i almost lost myself—days when the silence was louder than thought, when being alive felt like an unfinished sentence. but somehow, i found my way back.

now, i hold on to detachment not as a flaw, but as proof that i survived. it keeps me grounded, aware, untangled. it lets me love without losing myself, and walk away without breaking completely. it is how i protect the parts of me that the world has tried to take.

in the end, detachment is not about running away—it is about returning.
returning to the only person who has ever stayed. myself.

and that is the art of detachment—
to love without holding, to see without reaching,
to exist without losing who you are.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 9th of november, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.