There’s a light in you and it makes me never fear the darkness in me.
Parents kill more dreams than anybody.
I stopped worrying. I stopped worrying about the time and the day. I stopped worrying about the turning of the clock and of the sun, and the moon winding past overhead. I began to see you in everything. I remember wanting to know where you were. And I remember wanting to be there too. I remember wanting to know where you stayed. And I wanted to stay there too. I began to see you in the cars which reeled past me and in the people that I’d never seen before. I wanted each figure, slender with short dark hair and glasses to be you. I wanted you to see me there on the corner of the street. I didn’t know you. But I remember having a harrowing tightness in my cage, and I wanted nothing more than to understand you. I wanted to know your story so desperately. But all of that wanting is absurd, isn’t it? Pacing and wondering and dreaming for people and moments without ever having cause for being right. The tightness wound thicker, a boa winding around my abdomen and up around my neck, as I came to the understanding that I might never know.
The problem with our generation is that information is vast and widely available. “Google” never leaves anything searchable unanswered. “Google” is never closed. And when we are met with a yearning that “Google” cannot satiate, we are utterly lost. In the end, for the things we desire to know the most, there is only silence.
My goal in all things is to endeavor to take comfort in it. In the end, all I want is darkness and a profound deafening silence. When I get there, to the chair, or to the floor, I desire that I should no longer beat my brow against the absurd. But rather, I endeavor to have a fervent love for all of the silence. For that which was never meant to be heard. There, at the end, I’ll take it into my arms, hold it there, and lay with it quietly in the cool darkness of the sounding sea.