Peroxide (Peterick)

I made the cover before I knew what I was doing but it's okay now

There are certain sounds that sparks thoughts, thoughts that cause speculation of death and happier times, thoughts that come to us as naturally as a breath, but what we breathe is a falsification and a lie. What we breathe is the silence, the inexplicable pounding of black in a screaming room, and it disguises itself to masquerade as the tapping of rain in the window of a childhood home, so that's all we believe, because we are in need of a consolation.

The material we comprehend is nothing real, nothing that provides life or comfort, but we demand it to do so, because sounds are extroverted miracles that rescue humans from themselves, from their own papery thoughts, and perhaps the world will recognize the irony eventually.

And I never heard something quite as shattering as the gunfire on a battlefield, because it is born from the desire to murder to prevent more murder, and we weave that contradiction obliviously. We are falling out of line for an expectation of change, and we are fighting monsters that we cannot see.

With that idea, I can't help but wonder if it would be more accurate to say that this is a war against ourselves.

These matters make me wish for suffocation, for this image of joy is so skewed that it is meaningless to the blatantly introspective.

If I die, I want my passing to be narrated by the whisper of a tragedy that was never actually a sound at all. If I die young, that is. We're all destined for the grave, especially now.

For during this time, the things that we see are black and white — sometimes, that is quite literal — and we are convinced that a reformation is among us, but we refuse the prospect physically by not putting down our weapons.

When we are at a loss, when unbuttoned uniforms pinned on the deceased are scattered around, when the blood of our victims paints the meadow that used to represent peace, we continue to hold blades to our comrades' noses to check for breaths of what we come to understand as nothing significant.

And just like that, we are dancing with death again. The knife could slip, could cut, could kill, but it doesn't, even through trembling hands, and we sometimes applaud ourselves for remaining steady amidst the chaos, but we know deep down that it wouldn't matter if we did falter, because a massacre such as this does not pick the prettiest flowers in the garden — no, it steals with the sweep of the wind those who could not hold the blade still, those who were either brave or cowardly, but we observe no distinction once we brush past sentimentality, a chemical that poisons and warps even the greatest minds.

We have nothing but hypocrisy on the terrain, but we do not act on it, and perhaps we could've done something about it before it was too late, though we are already lost with the sounds that we used to know; and we position the knives once more, only to find that our mistake has become a tragedy that we cannot resolve.

Then, we understand the silence.

There are multiple sounds flitting along in my realm, apparently, swarming around my head like a mass of bees honing in on a flower — though I wouldn't describe myself as such a gift of nature — and it would seem that my amygdala hopes for me to list them all, or else suffer the wrath of my own mind's power. I've never submitted to the pain, not yet, just complied; there's still time to learn what kind of danger I will encounter, however.

The tapping of my pencil on paper is among the noises clinging to my eardrums, and it's the only one that ceases temporarily, its amplifier scratching a bit of the parchment with a witty idea before returning to its prior duty of monotony. I'm astonished that it doesn't grow tired of the bore.