We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.

We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more ---William Wordsworth

Sunday, 6 October 2013

Soliloquy of Silence

dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on the eerie, abandoned street. It was a windy, whispering, moonless night and the hissing and sighing of the wind amongst the trees carried a macabre touch with it, as if the rustling leaves were having a conversation with the wind. The colored and wrinkled leaves on the road suggested the advent of autumn and their dancing on the wind presented an ironic sight, as if they were bursting with joy and life after being withered from their branches. There was a flurry of movement behind a hedge and a figure soon emerged clad in a reefer jacket and worn out jeans, hands thrust deep into the pockets. He walked with a cautious tread lest he should disturb the fugue of excitement that the night had chanced to bring about, but, each footstep produced a resonance which pierced the night and replaced the howling of the wind with indistinct, receding voices and laughter that chased him until he reached the porch of an old, abandoned house.

The door creaked open, moving open a centimeter at a time, it could move faster but the door had grown moldy and soft with water and neglect. Once inside, the sheen from the moonlight slanting through the broken window illuminated the room and revealed a poignant scene. A thick coating of dust and mold encrusted everything. The once, grand wooden staircase was now thick with dust and dust covered papers were strewn on the stairs, each paper a burning memory. Old teacups lay on the coffee table, thick with dried up mold, dust covered mirrors, smell of mildew and stale air. Silence reigned supreme in the house, and its only occupants weaved their webs from the spindle of the stair banisters and and from the ceiling to the wall. Each mote of dust dancing in the moonlight carried a voice, a laughter, a cry, a shout, a silence. Until tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down the cheeks, his legs became weak and he lay on the floor, sobbing explosively, hands outstretched, crying for  redemption. 

Yes, drown yourself in your guilt, go tell yourself nothing is worth smiling at, let that sonorous voice echo into your conscience and convince you that this is what happiness sounds like. Maybe we're all stories in the end, read by fractured, depressed and guilty souls in silence, reflecting on their lives. Perhaps i am redemption, or perhaps i am damnation. I am the songs left unsung, the stories left unwritten, the pause between each telephone ring, each honk, and each...sob. I am the cloud pregnant with emotions and anticipation hovering over every soul. 

The crisp, musical rustle of her gown on the polished, wooden surfaces of the stairs is what you could have cherished. The fresh, rejuvenating perfume of her skin is what you could have yearned for. The child curled up in a white blanket in her lap is what you could have smiled at...but you..you apathetic being turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to her and now, after all these years rings the familiar telephone ring somewhere in the pit of your brain, erasing the memories into wisps of smoke which fade into the background, like landscape on a fast moving train.

A dim, orange patch of light from a nearby pole occupied a circular area on an eerie, abandoned street. In this circular area stood a woman with a bundle of white blanket in her hands, rocking to and fro, shivering, shrieking and vibrating with cold at the same time, like the shrill, piercing urgency of a telephone ringing somewhere.
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