Shouting in Silence

Singular state for a single silence. A few words that will be said, maybe few scratches on a rainy day. The cold permeates the stillness, both the air and the ground. In this, there is but an attempt to bring up what was left down deep; the bones and the ashes. There’s nothing, no one, not a single droplet to bring a shining shout in a dark silence. I continue to walk, and in each step I see walls screaming an emptiness for every inch of silence.

Marking words is all I care about, longing patiently, a detour in abysses of misunderstanding about what was left, was was called upon, and what was hoped for: tumultuous dreams in a long night.

As Ulysses left a sturdy heart for Anticlea to fill, I for one welcome a new Laconia. How long however before I reach the shaft, the well, and the shadow to rest? Long night ahead for a short silence. In an autumnal paradise, I would only contemplate what some of the rusty colours casted upon thousands of mirrors: shattered pieces for a quiet heart.

Who to welcome me? As tiredness imposes itself, peacefulness is what I strive for; Laconia is still far away. These words would only fall into a dark space, and I could only leave traces of a fierce pencil full of bruises that this long journey imposed; I would use those words, silently, to bring up the weight of such pains, the veil for such futile gains. A vain attempt maybe, to come close to the source, to drink those rivers of milk, the realm of my eternal sincerities. But more than what I can see, there’s only what I missed.

My hasty departure wasn’t enough to fill a reservoir of candid hopes, and the shining stars of two glories led me astray. As I understand, this is neither the last path, nor the main one. Why did time work on and in me? Why did I have to destroy more than on bridge for my work to mark in a long silence these short syllables?

There are no gods for that, and no place for a stout heart to stand; maybe a small garden time shapes, maybe some prose with no descendant; although they would leave to the bravest of men nothing but a fool hope, as empty as vain.

For the very fabric of my desires to have been touched, I elude my dark corners. I can only see my soul enslaved by the nothingness and its obscurity; I remember now: this is a path unhindered in appearance and shape, but the silence dissolves my broken fragrances, and the reflection I gazed at encrusted itself a little more, as to remind me that there is a predicament that nothing can ever disturb: time does its work, but never as much as a misplaced hope.

In such resolutions, I would try to cross the heavens, for my fierceness to be enough for convincing all the misery I would deploy upon my path. A long journey that pierces through the light, brings back fire for more ashes, more wood, more dark and more dust. There isn’t any shadow I could run away from I said, yet wouldn’t see in such toughness the lightness of soothing sounds. How am I to eliminate such a burden full of misunderstanding; such a crusade for each solstice? I believe that the rage that I had pushed hinted to me; dark matter on a fertile soil that I would forever dismiss.

The sun runs its course and its kingdom abides by what the moon dictates: shining in a new way, both dissolve the darkness.

Yet for the sun to sing, the moon would forever dull its melody…


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