Words Unlock Worlds

Can you hear yours?

End of a game, the buzzer ticks down.

Five, four, three, two, one. Ear against a pillow of rough cotton,

waiting for the shroud

of sleep to drape. Sitting, anticipating your stark

white exam paper marred by an awful

mark. Crossing storm-clouded marble

towards her - she may go out with you

this Friday or not. Your parents are static dominoes the moment

after their discovery

of your unforgivable deed. Anger erupting out

of your ears, dark smoke from a red-

tinged chimney, when your reckless

friend crunched your shiny pristine

Hyundai Elantra. Sweat drops racing down your face after you

sprint 5 miles straight

on your doctor’s vile treadmill. The eternity that

occurs when, finally, your knee kisses

the ground and one hand presents that

red velvet ring box. The doctor closes

the door with a swing of her blue coat, as if slapping the sky in

your face when you

can’t go in and see your wife, but her screams like

ambulance wails are piercing your ears,

as another pounding heart is brought in-

to the world. In these moments, can you

hear yours?

It’s there. Wildly beating like the bass of music.

Beating to your song,

and your song only. Never actually noticed until it

falters. Until you’re lying flat in a hospit-

al bed in the same hospital as your wife’s,

watching it jump across that austere black

screen. Tubes weaving into your body, as if trying to interlace

your veins and arteries.

They are there for one sordid reason. To keep that

beat of yours jumping on that screen every

half second. The bass is now loud and clear.

Its ping rings so insignificant against your now palpable, distinct

beat. Now, you hear

it beat all the time. While you spoon that vile hospital

pudding, while you sleep, still aware of the

tubes poking out of you, reminding you of Neo plugged into the

Matrix, while you

weakly hold your weeping daughter and wife’s hands close,

Ping, ping, ping.

It’s there. Never really noticed until it’s gone. Until your

bass ceases,

your song ends. Until you’re one of the 107 people

per minute.

Until it stops beating, and there is only

one

l

e

s

s

.

.

.