The reality isn't always friendly.

You understand it while fighting through everyday routines. Every single minute can be a struggle. A struggle through weakness, a struggle through unwanted strength. A struggle through every single endless day. Everyone experiences it, and everyone passes each test of life successfully to a certain extent. But what would you say about a struggle through silence?

I am sitting in a dark, but spacy room. I am writing these words in a notebook too plain to describe vividly. I hear only silence. I know, I almost physically sense the scribbling sounds of a pen on the paper. I am neither deaf, nor mentally ill. At least not yet.

I am waiting. I am waiting for someone to come. Though I haven't checked the door, I am incredibly sure it's closed. And I am still waiting. It has become my torture. I remember my last day at home. I remember each little bit of a noisy, laughing, musical life I've had then...

I don't know who invented it. No idea. Someone has done everything to create the most exquisite, sophisticated torture I could think of. My criminal unknown has put me into a room which suggested everything from a soft wide bed to a shiny bathroom. However, the room was artificially silenced. I mean, at all - no music, no sound from TV which showed images in HD resolution, no sound of steps, no voices, nothing...

I am a translator and interpreter. Voice - is my everything. Hearing is my everything.

And my torturer left me nothing. So I cannot even struggle through life anymore. I am just sitting in silence and waiting. What for?..