Within the Catacombs of the Soul

Song of the Cities

Everyday, when I cry, I leave society for the woods. There, it is quiet, calm, and peaceful. No one bothers you save for those who you bother. The rule of nature makes sense. “Do to others what you wish, but never forget your responsibility to consequence.” 

    I sit in nature and write. I write of the inconveniences of the day. How men bother you ceaselessly, wanting names, and meanings, and answers to everything. How existence in society is boiled down to, ‘what do you do for me?’ 

    Of course, I do not bring a pen and paper to the woods to write. The trees would see it as an offense. I would never dare to forget to include them. Nor do I whisper, because the frogs find it rude. They cannot hear as well as the owl, and wish to hear what I write as well. So, I sing. My heart is the harp to which the woods pluck the gentle strings, and beneath the sunset, when the leaves turn each vein into a constellation and the beasts among their kin begin to sing the song of the night, so too, do I join in. I may not share their form, but I share their mind. 

    One night, as the moon rose high into the dusky purple sky, shrouded in the sparkling sea of stars, I heard a voice. 

    “Please sing again?” 

    I quickly sat up, frantically glancing about the woods to find the source of the strange voice. It sounded as if the air itself had spoken. A low, gruff voice, like the bark of a dog, but with a sweet sound like a sapling’s bark. 

    “Won’t you?” The voice spoke again.

    “What would you like me to sing about?” I asked, settling back down against my tree. If the one who held this voice was like me, they were an outcast from humans who fit more in with the beasts. They would be too frightened to admit this. They would be as alone as I was before I found my voice. 

    “Sing about the cities.” A strange request. 

    “Wouldn’t you rather hear about the forests or the valleys full of trees and flowers?” I asked the voice. I sure would if I were them. The cities were gray and dull, full of smoke and fire. Nothing grew, nothing thrived, and absolutely nothing was really whole. It was boring, but the wilds, they were more alive than life itself could ever claim to be. The greatest philosophers of history spent years in this purest form of life to find their enlightenment. Surely this voice had misspoken, or meant to hear of a terrible thing. 

    “No, I want to hear about the cities.” 

    “Tonight is a beautiful night. Why would you want to soil the twilight with such terrible stories?” 
There was a silence, like air itself had paused to think. The moon stared down from his perch atop the canopy of stars, and the voice breathed silently. It had not gone, it had only been silenced, and though the voice did not speak, I could hear. If you open your mind instead of your eyes, you can see when you are blind. In the same way, if you listen with your heart instead of your ears, you hear the beating of thoughts instead of words from the mouth. The voice was confused.

    “Because I know the woods.” 

    “I know the woods as well,” I responded, my conversation with this voice was pleasant. I found the lack of eyes meant I could gaze to the stars for eye contact. There were no formalities of this exchange. Just a muse and a muser. One after another, musing and amusing. 

    “Yes, but you also know the cities, yes?” They asked.

    “Yes, I do.” 

    “Then why don’t you tell me about them?” I must admit, at that moment, I had begun to loose patience for the voice.