Silence

"When I am silent, I have thunder hidden within."- Rumi

"When I am silent, I have thunder hidden within."- Rumi

You’re silent. So silent; Why? The pain you feel inside is gnawing away at your heart, your mind, your soul. And yet you’re silent.

Don't try it deny it, you want help, to feel the love, the soft caress of human, physical contact, something real, an anchor to grip you tight and tether you to the plains of reality.

Because it's moving so fast, and you feel like a spec, a purposeless spec in time and space, a nano-cell in the universe, a universe that is moving so, incredibly fast. And yet, you’re going so slow. You've been placed in a section of time, a wonderful, possibility filled future from the point of view of the past, and an ancient, archaic history dribbling with secrets to be explored, the ways and paths of lives to be discovered from the minds of the future.

But why? Why you? In this time, this section of memory in the long and winding ribbon of age. And what are you? Because, you feel as though you have a purpose, but what is it? What could it possibly be? You feel like your meant for something, you’re born to change something. But how can you? When you’re silent?

So you stay silent. You tell other not of this in which you feel, this clawing, sharp edged grabbing thing that's clings within your mind, sending down bats with weather beaten, torn wings to rip apart your stomach as they fling themselves against the barriers of your body.

This aching stem of nerves that weave themselves up into your heart, squeezing tightly, then leads of into vine like tendrils that wrap around your throat, riding you of oxygen.

These crushing, agonisingly painful strings of poison ivy that cling to your consciousness keep you from talking, from uttering a syllable to anyone, planting seeds of doubt in your mind, that given nutrients, will bloom fully fledged flowers of self-hatred, their vice-like stems, clad in pointed thorns, each one filled with a minuscule capsule of reality, biting into your flesh and injecting a venomous thread of horror to your mind, each dose of this poisonous drug creating a crack in your perfect little walls, stuck together with bricks built of borrowed sanity and a false sense of security, used to form a protective barrier, that shields you from what you know is really there, what is creeping in the shadows, hovering in the corner of your eye, lurking beneath your bed.

These vice like stems continue to swirl and spiral, forming a faultless prison, that in-cages you, all iron bars and locked doors with imaginary keys, thrown away into a bottomless pit of fear, only to be reached by monstrous demons who will dance and sing, screeching with their victory in stealing such a treasured and valuable trinket.

The dew splattered, velvety crimson petals of the flowers blindfolds you, masking you from the light. From goodness. Happiness and pleasure become lost within their shadowy canopy, only leaving you with this darkened, shifting, greyscale and smeared view upon the world.

And still. You stay silent. Because who will listen? Who will understand? Who will know? So, no matter your crumbling reality, no matter your shattering sanity, no matter the bloody rose winding its way through you, splattering destruction like acid and growing larger with each defeat. No matter the clawed out, hollow crevice that is your mind. No matter the voice trapped within you screaming for help, knowing that this is wrong but drowned out by the crashing waves of fear. Fear of rejection, fear of heartbreak, of ridicule, of shame, of death, of life, of people, of monsters, of the unknown. Of silence.

You

Will

Always

Stay

Silent.