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.
- ▼ 2010 (11)
- ► 2009 (10)