Spending a lot of time just thinking about . . . well, that's it, isn't it? It's not really thinking that I'm doing. I'm just staring at the wall . . . no, passed the wall just sitting still, breathing, my heart pumping . . .I think it's pumping. I can't hear it but it must be pumping, beating, a silent drum, a mime inside my being.
The weight of thinking pulls at my consciousness, drags it down into my shoulders, down my arms into my hands . . . the fingers too crippled . . . heavy the darkness that masquerades as another warm, pleasant evening. I don't hear the dog next door anymore. He has gone deaf, I think. When you can't hear, you can't speak . . . how would you know what words mean if you can't hear them? Subtext is everything.
The world is changing. The students are crowding the streets, big signs thick with fake blood that form
words, again, words they mean nothing when shouted by the blind who refuse to understand that they cannot, will not ever see the shadow of what they mean to say. Innocence has left their houses, those houses buried in the cellar where the young ones were held captive for so many, so many years. They too could not see themselves screaming, hear themselves shackled to the rusty pipes that drained the rivers of their will from them . . . evaporated into dust . . . into tiny gray clouds of dust. No one will remember them. Their fingers too paper thin . . . they cannot hold the weight of a #2 pencil.
No comments:
Post a Comment