Sunday, January 24, 2010

Alone . . .

I know the sound that being alone makes. It's an echo in the brain that says why-why-why did I speak? It's the vast hollowness of a canyon, stripped of all vegetation and life, waiting waiting waiting for the pebble, the words, to fall and make a clattering sound (even if that sound is small). A sound that proves that the words exist, are real, are as tangible as flesh and bone.

It's you sitting at a dinner table not saying anything, because the words in your mind, the questions questions questions are foreign or incomprehensible or wrong if spoken in this space and at this time. You cannot win: silent, you are odd or rude, and yet, if you speak, you are rendered a foreigner in your own land.

Tonight, I am hostage to the words I do not speak. The wrongs I do not attempt to right, because my speaking the truth about myself and those I know would not be understood. Being a hostage is another form of alone.


whirligigdaisy said...

Wow. This is beautifully written. And now I'm thinking and wondering and having internal conversations with myself.

Heather Dixon said...

This is so sad and so poetic too

elegyrl said...

Iwant to leave a remarkable comment but cannot find the words to say. I really enjoyed reading this! Thanks for sharing!

literaqueen said...

This post makes me sad, Lisa. What's going on?

Denece said...

This is whole.
These expressions of the soul make me smile because the scenes are exploding with reality.
I don't feel sad.
I feel aware, awake.
Thank you