I bet the only place I'll find silence is the graveyard. It exists only beyond the city, into rural landscapes, into a plot of land that serves to remind you—into this life we come alone and we leave it alone—everything else is only a distraction.
Distract you from this they’ll try; via rose bushes, sweet little birds singing their refrain, weeping willows who sprawl so far and wide their branches allow only scattered millimeters of sunlight through. They try to sell you on the idea that something beautiful is happening here. They’re often successful—grief turns us into children again, fragments the mind, primes it for easy deception.
I know nothing but this: into the Earth I will not return. Pulverize me into chalk, pour hot wax over my decay, bury me ten feet under. Even then, there exists no unity between us. The Earth was always inhospitable to the soul—for however long you spend shaking the bottle, stirring the concoction—watch how when you set it down because your arm is sore, your hand is tired—they pull away from each other. She rises to the surface like oil separating from water.
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