There are days and nights I crave solitude such as this. Hearing nothing but foaming surf rush over coarse sand; feeling chill wind swishing through the seagrass on my skin; watching storm clouds gather over the waves… lock the world out. Please… no more. I can't do anymore.
Other days and other nights, this image terrifies me. There are no sounds of wind and waves, no feelings of coolness or signs of storms. There are but the many echoes bouncing across the universe that no one else seems to hear, and no one can seem to stop. They cry so many things, shout, whisper, dance, speak, proclaim, and haunt.
I am not crazy. At least… not in the way you might perhaps be thinking.
Oh to stand at the edge of the world, open up my arms and embrace Infinity! Can you not see it?! Can you not hear it!? But I am so small… so small… and that smallness keeps me from unlocking powerful and wondrous mysteries that would sweep over our sad little world in magnificent graces. We are all far too small to embrace the fullness of Truth. We would perish. For now.
It is during times such as these that guilt is a devious foe. I cannot seem to bear another thing on my shoulders. Even the thought of it crawls like bugs under my skin. I'm fragile.
But then I read more, hear more, see more of people who cannot get out. They are trapped in houses, factories, brothels, fields, basements, sheds, government offices… do they hear the voices too? Or am I alone selfish enough to allow myself to be seduced by them?
Don't be afraid. Don't turn away. Not all voices are evil. Not all voices are bad. Not all voices drag you away from what you think is real. And not all voices are locked away inside my head. Do you believe me when I say that you simply cannot hear them?
Often, I cannot help it. I wander away… to places you will never be able to come. Sometimes, I wish you could. My heart breaks at my freedom to wander where I will, but none can come with. Not you, or anyone. Other days, I run away so that you will not find me at all. The times when I am dragged away against my will to horrors you cannot understand are becoming less now.
Dare I explain my story aloud? Too often I am ashamed to even whisper it. How dare I even try when the stories of others' are being forcibly muzzled? Still… speaking this to the world might make you think I have no place to reach out. Perhaps it would be better if I was asked to step down.
She's quite not able.
She's not quite the type.
She sees things… she hears things… and she pays attention to them.
I hear your logic.
So did Moses the Mumbler. He hurt to think upon his task, especially in light of his memories. Likewise, it hurts to think upon my tasks when I think upon my memories for they seem more like nightmares all too often. There's no pity in saying this. Just grey. The many, many shades of grey. How do I cry to you for help? There's no reason to need help. And help is so embellished. Help means pills.
People always ask: "Why so blue?"
Blue… why blue? Why the colour blue? Nothing's blue. Everything's grey. Flat. Two-dimensional. Monotone. Wistful shades of grey. No reason to be blue. There's just nothing left. Oblivion tempts with such blissful promise.
And grey sparkles with darkling silver.