A Prose With No Direction

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Fall.

Drop.

Sink.

Ripple.

Pitter-patter. 

It sinks and sinks and sinks into an abyss. 

I cannot see it; it's too dark.

No light shines above my head, no suns glint upon my crown, no hope to guide me out of hopelessness. 

Nothing at all. 

Nothing but the darkness, itself.

Every movement I make, a gush of cold envelopes me. I raise my hand, the cold brings it down. I kick my feet, the cold pulls it down. I twist, and turn, and twist, and turn, but the cold holds me down—still, silent, cold, like a statue, with no emotion, no feeling, no life.

I open my eyes, my mouth, my ears, and my nose. My senses awake from their dreams—no, from their nightmares—and are welcomed by the cold. My eyes search. They search and search and search for something they know is not there, for something they think is there; they search for something that will never ever be there. They search for something call... light? No, for something call... hope? No, no, no, that's not right.

They search for something they call life.

My mouth widens, forming words upon words too fast for me to understand. They speak in tongues, screaming words I don't normally say—or rather don't know. They scream the word named "anyone." They yell the word named "please." They whisper the word named "me." They mumble the word called "help."

The mouth talks and talks and talks and talks, and it won't shut the hell up. It runs away like a train on a track, like a sports car in a car race, like a man from his fears. It speaks many words, retching themselves out from within my deepest pits in beats.

Beats... 

One word.

Two word.

Three word.

Four.

Each word has a bounce, beating like a heart.

Pitter-patter.

One word has a beat. A sentence has a rhythm. A paragraph has a melody. A book is a song.

Pitter-patter.

The words retch and retch and retch from within me, creating a melancholy song too small, too silent, and too inaudible for anyone to hear, listen, or understand.

Pitter-patter, they go.

But no one looks their way.

My ears jump at the sound of darkness, of blackness, of hopelessness. Like the eyes, they search and search and search for something that is not there. They search for a sound nonexistent in this kind of a prison.

They search for the sound of a voice.

Then they hear it, a light ringing in the darkness, in the blackness, in the hopelessness. They hear it, a beat, a rhythm, a melody, a song. They hear it. They hear my voice. But they do not listen. They do not understand. For the joy they felt of a sound ringing inside of them was so great, that the ringings begin to subdue, the sounds begin to drown, the voices begin to silence, leaving them as if they were never there... 

But... were they ever really there?

Or was it the joy that messed with them, played with them, toyed with them—used them—thinking that they heard something that was never there in the first place.

Just for their own amusement. 

Pitter-patter.

That they will never know.