A strange seeming has worked its way inside my mind. This strange seeming that is quietly leering, an odd seeming that silently staring judges my work, assigns my worth.
A quiet voice does come in whispered words of scorn and dismay, this strange seeming, this quietly leering enemy that wears my face and shares my voice, it tells me what I can’t do, it tells me how I’m wrong.
It tells me of my lack of worth and my wasted days. Wasted days of trying to be anything that isn’t quiet, that isn’t a failure, that isn’t just another corpse.
It fills my head with quiet whispers of scorn and dismay.
I ask this strange seeming, this quietly seething me, why does it say these things? For what reason does it torment me?
The only answer I get is doubt.
I wonder at times. An idle thing, a silent scream.
A question I pose, I ask in sorrow, I ask with faith.
Faith in silence, faith in loss, faith in nothing, no answer, no response.
I ask this question, this wordless phrase, I pose this problem to silent stars and darkened sky, with no one near, no one to hear.
The answer in turn is silence so true. Silence and words, ink upon a page.
An open bottle, seething rage, to drown the quiet, to drown the words, to forget the question I posed to you.
Anything, anything to take the of that forgotten phrase, that missing sound. The words I gave away.
The phrase unspoken, the thought untold, that forgotten question from so long ago…
Still I ask, and still I wonder…
All that glitters is rarely gold, and washed out colors are fairly old.
Tales of love end in gentle bliss while writer’s muse is in the liquor’s kiss.
They write in the dark and all alone, and rarely it seems are their tales so bold.
So strong and forward brought forth by drink, painting that picture so far out of sight, that daylight they find in their own piece of night.
My colors are faded, and the glitter is cold, the room is bare, and I am alone.
Nothing and no one but paper and ink, so perhaps it’s time to write and drink.
To put some color back to my life, at least for a time, to pretend I’m all right.
Oh, to pretend the liquor is my lover’s delight, and with drink and a story keep me warm for one more night…
I stand in stilted stillness, on the verge of falling.
I sway on silent echoes, and none can hear my voice.
The wind of that far place draws me near yet the tides do push me aside, they batter and bruise my swaying ship, this silent voyage.
I find myself forgotten, I find myself undone. I wish I’d never been, that what was never came to pass and I was utterly unmade, yet…yet there is something.
A promise, a hope, a small bit of sound that is neither silent echo nor the sounds of this stilted stillness.
Something new, and something old, past present converge and threaten to unfold, to intrude upon my prison, this exile voyage of mine.
Still the words ring empty, the promise untrue, there is no hope for me, that is the truth I fear to know.
Still I wear my smile, still I hide my shame, for hope of silence ending upon those returning days.
Upon the time that this unwinds and comes to an end, and my prison unfolds and I am made again.
I echo in this silence. Really the world is quiet, existence isn’t really much of anything compared to the silence. It only seems like something because there is so much room for echoes, so much room for that small speck of something to bounce around in, and make a shadow of itself with the sound of its passing through that nothingness. I only recently realized this, or perhaps it should be we? Either way, a single individual is not an existence, nothing so important that the beast that makes up that nothing, that creature that isn’t but is so much more to crack open an eyelid and stare back. Many fear staring into the abyss, that if you stare too long it might stare back, but for the abyss to stir your gaze must have weight. It must have existence. A single person does not have that. A single soul lacks any weight at all, and wouldn’t even cause the mangiest of mongrels the same irritation as a persistent flea let alone bother that beast of nothingness. An existence though? An existence in the abyss with all that makes it what it is, each of its echoes, whatever thoughts remain to the poor creature that once thought in terms as flimsy and ephemeral as I and Me? We are something, and we fall, and fall, and stare, our gaze weighted with the need for something to change, with the desire, the burning greed for something more than just shadows of sound, of a patchwork flimsy pretend. That might wake it.
Lets see how the beast feels once it wakes shall we?
Still, still it haunts me this blade in hand and those red tears I spilled.
Woe beside? No, woe resides, within my soul it has found a home!
It resides in me and mine, these creaking bones a welcome home, a place to crawl and creak.
Woe is me, woe indeed to have let that cursed blade speak.
Turn not to pain, to that foul minister of woe, for its wages are revenge. Its reckoning is to be made undone that hand that held its voice.
Turn aside! Turn back! Let not that woe beside silence your blessed voice!
Though in futility I speak for life, though in fear I speak for peace, it is with knowing and knowledge that I say this.
Let not that blade beside you speak!