Silence. That final, inevitable, thing following the last beat of the heart. The silence that is left in the crib after the newborn’s lungs draw breath no more. The silence after the symphony’s last note is whisked away to nothingness. The silence of the unspoken word. The heft of it. How frightening it must be.

More so is the silence inside the soul that has been lonely for too long. Bereft of kin, things begin pushing and pulling at that miasma of silence to alleviate their own suffering. The walls are high and cold. The thing inside shatters and reshapes itself uselessly  just to find respite from that crushing silence, heavier than a grave-slab.

For how long can a soul stand that fundamental silence that’s the only echo of its voiceless plights? For how long can a soul last thirsting to hear the shattering of that flat, laden, silence? Does the silence itself begets the darker things and thirsts, or are they brought to existence as a soul’s defiance to it? Are the hungers for crimson just echoes of sufferings that silence bestows upon it? Are the maddening cravings just sparks of its defiance? Can we ever truly dispel it?

Photo by Arcaion

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