By Dr. Adnan Bozan

There are human beings who walk along the edges of this world—without noise or clamor—as if woven from threads of wind and the memory of longing. Light souls passing like clouds across the balconies of crowded cities, without knocking on a single door, or leaving a shadow on the asphalt.

They do not belong to noise, nor do they feel at ease in festival squares. They do not find themselves in the arms of crowds. These are the recluses—a forgotten lineage of humanity whose souls blossomed not under bright lights, but in the dimness of rooms, in the hidden cracks of the day, in those moments that even time itself fails to comprehend.

They rarely have more than one or two friends—not out of arrogance or pride, but because their hearts only expand for those who share their refined madness: that unseen madness that can only be felt, like winter air in a warm room.

Their phones are always on silent—not because they are waiting for a call from “no one,” but because they know external sounds disrupt the symphony within their souls. They do not like to be asked about—because a question is a promise they cannot always keep. They cannot bear chatter, for they revere language and know that when speech lacks meaning, it corrupts the world's silence.

They enter Facebook as one might enter an abandoned library at night—not to talk to anyone, but to witness the dance of lost souls on the walls of digital silence. They write posts expecting no likes, like poets who toss their verses into the sea, then walk away without turning back.

When they love, they love with unbearable depth. They do not drown in relationships, but dive into souls. They do not scatter their hearts among passersby, but carefully choose those worthy of entering their inner sanctuaries.

They are lovers of books that smell like their age, of quiet walls accustomed to their soft sobbing, and of sea waves that know how often they’ve cried on the shore without shame before the horizon’s gaze.

They adore the desert for it mirrors their silence, the winter for it is their internal water, the quiet for it reflects their soul, and the darkness—for it resembles them. Not because they are melancholic, but because they’ve learned that true light is not seen with the eye, but radiates from within.

They harm no one—not because they are incapable, but because they rise above the wounds of others, just as a bird rises above the muddy ground. They smile often—not because they are happy, but because they understand the world cannot bear too many sorrowful faces. So they hide their wounds behind smiles rich with meaning.

They live more than they show, suffer more than they speak, and think more than they share. Their wars are fought inwardly, within the walls of the self—and they emerge with no victory anthem, no screams… just a piece of music or a sip of tea on an autumn evening.

They are not antisocial, as others may think, but reconciled with themselves. They know that the closer one comes to their essence, the farther they drift from the noise of the herd.

They are souls saturated with questions, with wonder, with longing for a time they never lived, for homelands they never inhabited, for friends they've never seen—only imagined under moonlight, in the pages of a novel, or in an old song.

The world does not understand them—sometimes, it even fears them—because they do not conform to familiar standards, nor do they submit to molds. They are the beautiful exception, the warm tremor in the heart of winter, the mysterious scar on the face of life.

I am one of them.

Yes, we are few, but we are the pillars of the hidden existence. We are the ones who, when monuments collapse, carry them silently on our shoulders, and sing in the dark without waiting for applause.

We write—not to impress, but to save ourselves from drowning. We weep without sound, laugh without reason, and love without conditions.

We are understood only by those who are of us—those in whose hearts a flower of silence has blossomed, who have bowed to the sunset, and written love letters to the night without ever sending them.

We are... the Prophets of Solitude.

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