Don't Look Out Of You Poem by Mystic Qalandar

Every night, when I descend
into the midnight silence of the world,
I hear whispers in the heart—
slow, heavy, one by one,
like litanies of the dead.

Then silence—
the silence of a graveyard
where even memory
has stopped breathing.

I am alone.
No one around.
At least, I think I am—
but thought itself
may be the first intruder.

Last night, in meditation,
I heard whispers
rising softly from my head.
I held my breath and listened—
the whispers stopped,
as if they had been waiting
for a stillness
I could not give.

Then a whisper touched my ear:
'Why do you look out of you? '

I ran toward the room of the heart,
but the door was locked
from inside.
I heard someone laughing
on the other side—
a laughter I knew
as my own,
only older,
as though it had been laughing
since before I was born.

I searched for the intruder,
my hands trembling.
Then my intuition began to ring:
'No intruder has infiltrated.'

I answered.
Nothing.
Only breathing—
but whose?

Then my intuition whispered:
'Whatever you do…
don't look out of you.'

I froze.
Because the voice
was no longer coming
from the caller.
It was coming
from every pore of me—
from the hollows of my bones,
from the marrow of my becoming.

I felt something cold
resting against my pillow.
A mouth whispered:
'You always look out.'

I closed my eyes
and waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.

Then I heard the whisperer
running away—
not from me,
but into me,
deeper than I had ever dared to go.

I opened my eyes.
The hallway was empty.
But the door to my heart
stood open.

Across the wall,
in fresh, wet letters,
was written:
'HU'S BEHIND YOU.'

I did not turn around.
I did not breathe.
Because something behind me
had begun to breathe—
fast.

Hu.

Then it spoke
in my voice:
Hu.

And I understood:
The one behind me
was the one before me.
The intruder was the host.
The whisperer was the word
that had never been spoken.

I had been looking out
from the wrong side
of my own eyes.
The room of the heart
was never locked—
I was simply standing
outside myself,
knocking.

Hu.
The breath before breath.
The name before name.
The silence between silences.

I did not turn around.
I turned inward.
And found the hallway
was endless,
the door
was always open,
and the one writing
on the walls
was me—

Hu.

—MyKoul