Silence

The truth about caring

The silence is the worst part.

I can deal with shouting, or abuse, even violence

– but it’s the silence that gets me.

That simple act of muteness,

cut off from the source, unable to decipher,

blinds drawn around the truth

 – this is the worst part

It cuts through ears and ideas,

slicing finely through facts and fiction,

tugging at heart cords and hope.

A-Z Challenge: Secretive S

The damage of silence

Was it her?

I ask in earnest, watching your lips stay firmly closed. I know that you think this method is the easiest, that somehow your silence on the subject will halt the conversation, stop my pursuit of the truth. I think maybe you don’t understand the way in which my brain works, and who could blame you as not even her owner has a full understanding, yet I know this much: refusal to talk won’t make me stop wondering, in fact it makes the hunger worse. Instead I needle you for more information, your mouth set into a stout barrier to your words, I pause briefly before trying to explain why I need this. Offer examples of previous relationships soured by the lack of information, the disintegration of trust, yet you don’t understand, or you do and this still does not sway you to share. My persistence, or stubbornness does eventually pay off – in a way: after my pestering train of conversation you admit to what I already knew to be true, but neither of us are better for the interaction: well maybe not just me
.
The silly thing is that it was a simple question, with a simple answer: there was no hidden agenda that you might have thought, there was no malice or emotion attached: yet the denial or the reluctance to answer was the key to opening another door. Something that would have gone away easy with a grin now still resides in my brain, niggles my mind and forces me to think about it in my times of solitary.

Perhaps, I think you don’t talk because it hurts too much – still: and this is what keeps me awake at night. If you can’t talk about something because it hurts, because it’s still raw then maybe you are not ready to move on at all. Maybe I’m starting to fight a losing battle, again.

I’ve been there before – competing with the shadow of a former love, a rose tinted soul mate, and I can never compare – I know this: nobody can.

It’s that one person, one of those ghosts that people have, those haunting figures that broke their heart, maybe even time and time again. The little deaths that people resign themselves to once they commit to someone heart and soul. You give your everything to them and they take your innocent heart and squeeze out every last ounce of hope and leave you with a tender husk which you learn to closely guard.

There are places and things that are connected to these people. Sometimes it’s a film, a certain phrase, a chain of restaurants, places you both visited, even clothes you wore: all these memories, those little glints of happiness you keep them. They never get spoken about, they are just kept close, little private moments that you can access, unsullied by others, kept only for you.

Whilst this may not be the case for you personally, this is now how it seems, and I wonder if you are really ready for anything as intense as I can be. I wonder if you even want this and all the while I hate the fact that I have been too open…too honest…too free with my words: all which now seem insubstantial, since I had to fight you for yours.

 

Written for A-Z Challenge: S

Writing Bad

Bad writing is better than no writing, that’s what some people say however they have never read my bad writing obviously. As I type with my awkward slow hands, fingers struggling to hit the correct keys and making mistakes that I know I should ignore yet cannot help to go back and correct..The ‘ in the that’s..the capital in the I, does it really actually matter in the grand scheme of things. I decide that to me that it does, as I begin to hit the backspace key and correct the mistakes so that I no longer have to look at the little squiggles under my words (not that I actually look at my screen whilst typing which is kind of my problem). I could of course just save all those red zigzags up until the end and then auto correct it all yet there is something about them just being there..hovering…waiting…tutting with disdain that my typing is actually this bad…and so too my writing.

It’s the constant flow that is the important thing they say. That constant notion of typing..just something anything. Some random rubbish that pops into your head as you sit listening to the tip tip tap, annoying your own ears with the repetition of sounds and the soft thud of the L key as you hit it and then have to wait for it to …erm what’s the opposite of compress again?.. so you wait for the key to pop back up yet instead it lingers, held down against its will due to repeated drops of coke, trickles from wine spillages and full on torrents of cordial being knocked over and over again. I make a note to be more careful with drinks in future yet it never happens..I just can’t help it, I’m clumsy.

I think I was just born clumsy, I’d like to say that I came out kicking and screaming and was clumsy enough to kick someone in the face which would have made a great entrance story. However I cannot lie, my clumsiness was only my own issue, having gotten so tangled inside that I arrived into the world with a cord wrapped around my neck, no screaming, no kicking but silent..silent and blue.

Maybe this accounts for both my love and hatred of silence.

Yes, both!

Do you ever get the need to just want complete silence, to block out the world and all its annoyances. To get rid of the tapping and clicking, rattling and humming. To do away with the noises of society, the buzz of the lamp post, the clink of the gate, the constant droning of the heater or the washing machine or whatever it is that the upstairs flat dweller has that makes my teeth want to grind against one another. Of course not everyone can hear these things, not everyone notices the slow shifting of the world, the low undulations of life whirring in a constant circle..whirling in my head. And if you cannot hear them you will most likely point out that I am hearing things or have tinnitus or some such infliction because you can hear nothing but the sound of silence.

I would love that, to not hear these sounds that echo in my brain and drag down my thoughts to the paranoia of a basset hound awaiting an intruder. I would love to be able not to hear the flicker of the lights as the computer churns and the whistle from the monitor that can drive me crazy if I don’t catch it early enough.

I would love that silence…until I get it.

Then as soon as the silence comes and no noise can be heard, I am unsettled still. For in complete silence there still exists a slow thud of heartbeat, the soft murmur of being, that something which is overpowering and constant that coats my hearing and needles it’s way… into my soul.

Then I know that I am done for.

The Unspoken

Ginni bites!

We sit – in silence

It stands between us like a wall of ice,

muffling our low clicking sounds.

It has always been there

That soft, sultry notion of nothingness

It has always been curled around us

watching us go about our days.

Yet it was never visible before,

This silence which squeezes itself into our world

It was never so clear, to the eye,

to the ear.

Never before had it announced it’s presence

so loud.

And now as I breathe in our life

I hear the silence.

It pursues me with bells,

Lights a beacon under my chair,

Forms an exclamation mark in my mind.

I am deafened by the lack of sound.

Yet opening my throat to speak

only produces a soft click …. click

and so is the music of our subsistence.

But turning, I see your smile

glowing in satisfaction.

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Oh for the sound of silence

Do you ever get the need to just want complete silence, to block out the world and all its annoyances. To get rid of the tapping and clicking, rattling and humming. To do away with the noises of society, the buzz of the lamp post, the clink of the gate, the constant droning of the heater or the washing machine or whatever it is that the upstairs flat dweller has that makes my teeth want to grind against one another. Of course not everyone can hear these things, not everyone notices the slow shifting of the world, the low undulations of life whirring in a constant circle..whirling in my head. And if you cannot hear them you will most likely point out that I am hearing things or have tinnitus or some such infliction because you can hear nothing but the sound of silence.

The Unspoken

We sit – in silence

It stands between us like a wall of ice,

muffling our low clicking sounds.

It has always been there

That soft, sultry notion of nothingness

It has always been curled around us

watching us go about our days.

Yet it was never visible before,

This silence which squeezes itself into our world

It was never so clear, to the eye,

to the ear.

Never before had it announced it’s presence

so loud.

And now as I breathe in our life

I hear the silence.

It pursues me with bells,

Lights a beacon under my chair,

Forms an exclamation mark in my mind.

I am deafened by the lack of sound.

Yet opening my throat to speak

only produces a soft click …. click

and so is the music of our subsistence.

But turning, I see your smile

glowing in satisfaction.