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I cant hear you.

A stale, still mass of body folded into the floor next to me.  Folded around me. Folded into me.  Folded as me.  I sat there, numb. No feeling,  no words, no tears. I balanced in the equilibrium of silence centered in my stomach.  I found silence. 

It scares me. Sometimes. The silence.   Wonder and doubt drench my skin. When I’m alone. I am not sure of anything.  I talk myself into uncertainty. Who is to say I exist? A mere object.  Blending in with the room.  With the city. I am afraid of being alone. My thoughts are a siren. They call out to fear and forlorn. I crumble. I wilt into myself. A body I do not recognise. What is the difference?  Between I and the desk. We both numb and needing to be needed. For a moment I am inanimate object.

 In the midst of a waging war,  a pending peace had been postponed. All my hope, cancelled. I found fear.  Words would become the death of me.  I feared all the razor blade words I wanted to say.  Tell me where to go to erase the silence of that day. How do I break into heaven and ask God to bring back my mustard seed,  all of where I have been storing my faith. My tongue is a petrol bomb.  A soldier’s rifle,  a drill,  a saw,  a spade.  Any word that I utter becomes a suicide note written long after the death.  I did not speak.   I sat among strange men in uniform who claimed to be grieving but held all the words I wanted to say in their fists.

Saw women and young ladies drenched in the tears of their aching hearts. Still I did not speak. Instead the ground swallowed my mustard seed. The machine activated itself.  The city came alive. I remembered myself again. I don’t like the silence. It makes me forget. Myself. Makes me forget Everything.

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