Can't Make A Sound

For three minutes, the world seems like it has stopped spinning. As my mind adjusts to the silence that follows, it is with some disappointment, and doubt -- because what else is left to feel? I have resolved everything, and having discovered my final words, I see no better close to the chapter. All remorse has been shed, because I must be blessed to be able to feel so strongly and, I think it must be true, purely. Perhaps there is a world as bright as the poets tell, but I don't lament that I will not see it. Even if I've been walking in the dark these many years, it was always to this place, where I may bask under a sky of glorious gray. I'd like to stay here, I tell the world, as I feel the wheels stir slowly into motion.

Pitseleh

"No one deserves it": it was around this point last night that I felt my throat start to clamp up, and it started getting tighter still with each following word. Because that's really all you can say, isn't it -- this amount of emotion could not be owed to anyone, no matter the path they may have chosen, or the things they might have done. Ergo, we find ourselves an unfortunate casualty of chance.

You'd think all this wise reflection and introspection would offer some solace, and steer one's thoughts away from that which has no answer. But there is still a resigned admission of guilt that, even knowing all that one does, there is something inside -- a piece that went missing, and which each day seems less likely to be found -- that refuses to let go. What else to do, then, but to embrace the night in the hopes that it will help one forget?

"I've got a joke I've been dying to tell you": the sun rises again, and in the daylight, it seems like there just might be hope.