Silence Be My Name

Silent is my existence to the universe, known by few, appraised by fewer. Without a voice, silence shall I ever be known as, or rather unknown. Still, those in possession of a voice go unheard and remain in silence. Shut out by booming voices, the meek appear non-existent. Our voices fall upon deaf ears; ears that lead only from one side to another drifting into the void. The magnitude of the boom is insignificant in a world without an atmosphere. A deafening shout carries no more weight than the gentle kiss of a whisper. As our voices drift into the void, so does our existence. Silence becomes us, and we drift away from reality as if we never were. Solitude becomes a familiar face, a close friend, the only friend. Our minds driven from reality, for darkness do we seek, depression we bathe, silence do we speak. Then, light tunnels through the abscesses of our soul bringing upon a glimmer of hope only to fade and away we fall, deeper and deeper.
Deep do we burrow, these pits, hollow and ever expanding. They become familiar places, they become home. Our escape from reality when the world becomes hostile. Mazes we create in the deep depths our souls’ purgatory where the monsters lie, unbeknownst to the outside; a trek outsiders dare not tread upon for demons lurk here. They do not beckon to the call of their masters, their chains loose, and their shackles broken. Ravenous, unyielding, and vengeful be their nature. They know not their names; they are merely shadows of their origins, corrupted in purpose. Silently, swiftly the warry traveler should beget wake not those who slumber. Whispers, distant whispers in the long dark, the silent mourns of progenies seeking refuge. Disfigured, malnourished, and reclusive they become in the darkness, becoming indistinguishable from their captors.
Light no longer a glimmer of hope but a nuisance. Hated it becomes, despised and shunned. We burrow deeper and smother ourselves in darkness, despising the light. Burrow deeper do we wish not. Solitude be not a friend, a familiar face. Children begetting demons do we wish not. Let us not drift into the crevasses of purgatory, let us not bathe in an ocean of misery. We wish not communion with monsters.
FainofHearts FainofHearts
26-30, M
Jan 1, 2016