Silence.
To some it is an escape, a calm beyond all else.
It makes others anxious and uncomfortable.
And to some it gives a cradle of relief
Almost a loving hand holding them tight and keeping them safe.
I remember what the idea of the silence felt like.
But now, silence stings.
It leaves me aching,
empty.
At one time in my life,
Silence was not even silence at all,
But more of a lithe melody floating through the air.
That bright and nonchalant silence made me walk on air and sit on clouds.
Now,
Like nails to a chalkboard or the shriek of a frightened child,
The silence leaves me on edge and tumultuous.
Some people say that hindsight is 20/20,
But really hindsight is just a foggy vision
Of what we think the past held.
We peer through a looking glass steamed with emotion.
And no matter how hard we try,
It will only show us what we want to see.
Looking back on the past month of my life,
As hard as I try, I can only see the world through my blind eyes.
And as hard as I try, I can not hear the words spoken to me.
For had I listened the first time,
I would know now why this silence burns through my veins
Like a blazing wild fire.
That day seems so clear yet so distorted in my memory all at once.
I can see everything as it happened but things are missing.
The pieces have left me here to sit through this deafening silence
And sort through the clips and stills of my past life.
Without a completed piece,
I cannot pass through the door to my salvation,
Where the silence is halted and the sufferings are dismissed.
I long for the day when I can hear that lithe melody in my heart once again.
And so starts my story once again.
It plays back in my head over and over again.
Like a never ceasing broken record.
I turn back the pages of my diary where all the stories are kept.
The days in order of how they happened.
I spend my time now rereading these pages,
Introspecting the events that inspired the writing in this book.
The worst part is that I can't do anything to change what has happened.
All there is to do is to take my place in the story and observe.
--
The plot is discovered
She lifted the thin hem of
Her light robin's egg
Transparent shirt
Blue
Black
Purple
Red
Barely any white
Bare feet
Bare hands
No coat for the cold
Pouring sweat
Freezing on her temple
Note in her pocket
Holding her together
Red ring
Circling her neck
Limbs scraped
Bleeding
Dirty
Not a tear
Just shocked silence
Nor a whimper
Silent cries
Ripping through the look
In her eyes
Not a sound
Silence
Deafening silence
Deadly silence
The silence held in pain
Trying to forget
Yesterday
Dreading
Tomorrow
Living only
Now
Despite the
Crushing weight of
Gravity
--
My heart is heavy
I am almost to my breaking point
I can't quite take it
But I'm scared
Because I'm broken
Not good enough
And yet there he is,
Knocking down the wall around my heart
Knocking at my door
But I can't bring myself to
Open my door for him.
--
Footprints in the immaculate snow
Leaving only the damp grass
Where the snow had melted away
Under her warm feet
The tracks bee line through the woods
Circling trees
Over bridges
Around the bushes
Across the frozen lake
And then they stop
A pair of red heels discarded
At the base of the tall oak
The rigid bark brittle from the cold
The highest branch holds her
Cradles her in its bough
Her cotton frock sways slightly in the breeze
Her arm hangs limp over the side
A cigarette lit between her fingers
Ashes floating off with the wind
One single tear rolls down her cheek
She refuses to cry more than that one tear
Her hair, hung in ringlets
Clings to her face
Her pocket holds much
The almost full pack of cigarettes
A book of matches
The wooden heart he had carved for her
And the only photo she ever owned
Torn and ruffled edges
Aged from the years
Stained with heart wrenching memories
Yet it holds her heart
Comfort in a wallet sized scrap of paper
His eyes glistened as he smiled at her
But she left him
Took nothing with her
Nothing but her
Cigarettes
Matches
Heart and
Home
--
Life is a story
And we are merely it's players
But not even we
Can stand a testament
To the characters of the
Story of our world
We fit our mold
Shaped
Into a stereotype of a character's
Deeper soul and virtue
Our actions
Are just tugs on our
Puppet strings by the
Author puppettier
But sometimes us puppets
Pull back and
Create the story
A new