Muted Whispers

Anxiety.

Hello anxiety.I see you are my next event on my calendar. Has it been that long already? When was the last time you’ve spoken.To me?These are but the clapping thoughts, the ticking of motions we press on. Very much like the thumping beats in my chest; the narrowing embrace. No, no. No. This is not meant to flow in rhyme, and almost unconditionally do the words pretend to be.To me? Or you? Us, maybe.The fog sometimes sharpens our senses, but what sense exists in this writing? I cannot smell the words in the order they are in, nor can I feel them. They are just words, just like thoughts that bounce over stepping stones, but there are no stones here. Only waterlilies on a pond of uncertainty. Oh yes, they do float, but can we step on them? Maybe a frog can. I am not a frog. But if I rage in anger, at the very discomfort of not understanding myself, and roar, and arhh, maybe I can penetrate the fog.Sharpened senses do bother me, but they also warn me of the dangers. Of the people who just don’t shut up. Those echoing bellows nearby, their fainting words, the shallowness of breaths. Just.Stop. Please.Please me.

Lies.

What lies on my mountains that I control? Where our breaths grow stronger and lungs capture less of life. Their stories have lied to me, and that is why I stand here on mountains. High on life. I don’t dare but to even touch them, not again, anyways, or be near them. The sounds scatter when you’re up this high; they glisten in the mist, almost predictably silent.And yet, predicting the silence bothers me. I see it coming too much, from too far away. I want to shield my ears from their cries, the laughter and their lies. Like switching between conversations, or hearing the roar of people talking over each other in a crowded place. The fuzziness. The ignorance. And I just want to be in a room full of silenced; that to me is sound. A sound idea.But their clapper, and their laughs, and stomping. The intermittent factual conversations, the beeping noises in the background, and clamoring sounds of shards of glass passed around, knocked around even.Where are the lies within me, what lies in me? I don’t mask myself from the sounds. Or escape them. I try to live by them. Sometimes they speak with sense and purpose. They might even brighten my day. That is not a lie. Sometimes the stories are captivating, and I imagine better worlds, a better life for myself. Or is this just better lie for myself? Have I missed the effing clue that relinquishes my body from the corruption. From the betrayal? From the suffering?In my moments of solstice in solace, the longest periods of time that pass in anguish. How can that be?Sometimes I get ideas from the sounds; they open my life to wonderful causes, a realisation that life exists beyond my walls. How wonderful that they exist, for I can reimagine life with them. I could almost call them beautiful.I don’t want to live a recluse in a cave, or lie through the nightmares. Or have to lie by myself. I want to lie with others in the comfort of my personal ambitions, and not masquerade them as lingering thoughts of imagination.And in these moments of strength, my weakened body remains awakened, with eyes wide that I see a reason to live.But I lie. I lie to rest.

Trust.

Trust holds us high and on sturdy foundations. With it, we can cross challenges, move mountains, remove our worries and perhaps even fall into a structured path of surrender. And I think I need trust the most.I cannot remember the last time that I laughed. So heartily, maybe even if heartlessly at the expense of someone else. You see, sometimes people push you around too much, or too hard, that it strengthens the heart, not for resolve, of course not. We’re not talking about self comfort or strength here. This is pure hurt; the constant motions that meld you from the outside in. Maybe even if one is trusting, and then the real emotions bounce off like droplets of rain on a trampoline. And like the meshwork so tightly packed, interlaced with feelings and hopes, get trampled on, abused and discarded into the wind.No, no. Although, maybe yes. Maybe we are meant to witness these acts, for they forged a life that I cannot forget. For we get fortitude, and obtain the notion of forgiveness. That way, we are not foolish to forgive.For I give, trust and gain the motion of trustworthiness. And I use this to my advantage, to let people know me, and in turn trust me. Perhaps even I can be their bridge that cements the gaps in their lives. Help them become suspended like ghosts without touching the ground. Sometimes even the hard surfaces beneath our feet hurt us. You can imagine this, cannot you not? The rust that builds on the roads; the human waste and pollutants it holds, from buildings towering above that collapse when our dreams die? And each step like stepping on a bed of nails, the copper strands of betrayals; do you know they came from life?The exes and whys, the slanted focus and the triangles we make between our ambitions. Of course, there is always a trade-off. Maybe we appear disheveled and sore to the eye to some, but we remain structured and well -balanced. Would like you like to come aboard?

Theme.

Me. Am I selfish?Tell me, how do you feel about me? I know you because it is with me that you engage. And I feel we have a connection. We have built something, together. Isn’t that wonderful? I think so too. I can listen to you agree. Or are you agreeing with yourself?You see, I ask you this because I truly want to know. I want to live with a purpose, and not simply be a thought that lives as a string of imagination. You know, it’s kind of funny. Our memories and our thoughts, where do they really live? In our brains; do you think we can extract them and measure them? But here, my words to you are imprints, not imagination. Never intended to be.I would like you to imagine us, how would you picture this? Would there be trees in the background, or birds soaring high, or what about a landscape of cities in ruins. Maybe even with a cracking soundtrack in the background. Ha! You almost got me there; you were thinking of creating music, weren’t you? To fill the emptiness with sound, a uniqueness in your world! But not in mine. And you know, I might just forgive you, yes me, can you imagine that! What a wonderfully, silly thought of mine. But, I said it, and it must be true then.So yes, I struggle with sounds. But many other things actually. Forgiving you for almost ruining this conversation, for reasons that you obviously know, or have you forgotten? Surely, it is not because you don’t care about me; that cannot be. You are here, and therefore I am here. And yet, it’s like one of us isn’t real. Yes, I think that’s an interesting idea, I do have a knack for them. So there’s that too—I struggle with trust. But not here, I wouldn’t lie to myself.Purpose is so important for us. It paints the reason why we like to engage with ourself and with others. It creates the boundaried connections between thoughts, the forces beneath our ideas, that help link them together, even if they don’t realise they need to be together. It goes beyond having a topic or a subject; it is an integral part of our lives that it only makes sense placing in a story.I want us to build. To create a canvas of our imagination, no matter how crazy it may be. You can be as dramatic as I am. Yell! Rage! Be yourself for crying out loud. It’s the sounds that I fear, not the expressions. What’s the difference between sound and expression? Well, you know those sounds that are just meaningless, and only carry the moist breaths of blabber, the disgusting spit of decay from those foxholes, the very same orifices that bring much love to our enjoyment. I cannot but help see the regurgitating mistakes as mouths open, lord knows what they’ve touched, or swallowed. And they speak in lies, and yet create a comfort for us, a comfort that over time we fear. Their words command us even; and yet, between words, little projectiles blast away and infect us with their disgraceful promises. Thanks. Thanks very much for bringing forward this image—no, this, this memory. Of course not, the sounds weren’t enough, you had to make me picture it—relive it!No, no, no. I am sorry; I cannot help that we are conscious individuals with complex imagery mechanisms that bring the most unimportant and mundane things to life. Please, just give me some space.I do hope this moment of weakness in me doesn’t affect our relationship. I truly care about you, and what you think. This is hardly just about me. I wanted to bring you closer into my life, and perhaps share a moment of joy, a truly innocent and evocative moment of self-expression.

Fears.

I’ll be quick today. I truly have no one to turn to. You know sometimes we are stuck in a room, the predators surround us, and only in moments of silence can we focus our entire energy on surviving. That’s my world. Welcome. Forgive me as I cannot be so enthusiastic about this. Why is it like this, you may ask. I couldn’t tell you, some people are born to be prey, I suppose. And others, well, they better pretend to themselves to be stronger than the rest. Even people that you love, that you care for, that even, yes, that you trust. And it, it really bothers me to the core. We defend those that shove us down, and depend on them. It’s like we depend on their pushes. And if we try to push them away, it’s just us being pushed again.So don’t blame me for how I am. What do you expect? Like them, I am broken. So is it breaking others that I hope then to find the pieces to fix myself? That’s not how it’s meant to work is it? Or is it their fears that make us stronger? Because we obviously talk to them, and listen, are are actively engaging with them. And then, click, it all goes to hell. Expressing this to you and the line between innocent and guilty becomes blurred.I wonder when they broke me. I remember enjoying the blissfulness of mornings, the, whispering breeze that crashed into our windows. The screams of joy as we’d rush down the creaky staircase and embrace each other. Mornings were nice, they are but fond wishes, memories that have been erased by traumas. There, I said it. I blame myself for thinking like it was never meant to be.I saw people as themselves; they spoke with wisdom, and shared their stories. They built our hopes from the ashes that fell, that sank below the ground. And they moved the earth, to seal our memories. Even the warm embrace of strangers became respite. It was a much needed comfort at the time. Then, life became harsh; a little at first, but then like waves of a storm they cried onto us, and crashed their full strength onto our fragile bodies. It was taken out of us. Others became but shadows of the images we closed our eyes to, dark figures that we, that I feared.Like mice I had to navigate in the darkness and silence the noise of life. The smallest of creaks, or weeping, became nothing more than excuses. And my muted words, even to myself, became illusions.I only wanted to explore without judgement, but the outside presented fears that I was too scared to face, and inside, well, motionless I remained. I was safer in bed, surrounded by fixed, inanimate structures of comfort, lifeless like me. And yet, below me, the thunderous rackets of confusion and poison remained, at least someone else was being hurt, and not me. Funny to think that I was once saddened by the motionless life beneath us, and even held a strong hold onto the memories of happiness when I last looked into the hole that was dug. And I’m up here now, far above the cold earth, and what treacherous beneath am I living on.

Cables.

I just won’t believe in just anyone, but in the tranquility at the heart of my storms, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve invited their company. At least that’s what the therapist told me to do. Told me that if I wanted to see the many other different perspectives in the world around me, that I must reach within me. To search for the missing connections that I so much crave, how she knows that, I don’t know. And these strings, like cables strung above a theater of puppets, perhaps are what I needed most. The distraction to be spoken out to me, the dissatisfaction that I have with it.I suppose you are right, simply stating my worries was not enough, I needed someone to talk to. Yes, I am dubious of its help, but my therapist told me to not look at it as others pulling the strings that control me, but to search for the missing interactions. Beyond the hardwired connections inside of me that have gone haywire. She said that I must take control of the connections; a phone operator connecting the cables to their calls on the switchboard. Maybe it is me searching for my calling, and it seems to be helping. And talking to you also helps.“It’s about being able,” she said to me over the telephone, just before I hung up. And for a while she had me strung into conversation, myself dangling at the ends of consciousness. And so, like dancing at the end of ropes that others have thrown to save me, I pulled myself up. Without direction, at the mercy of my puppet masters.Come now, I must be feeling joy. But, not quite, though, not yet; I feel my space invaded, the dim lighting contrasted by sparks and hot flashes. The air breezing into the room; the messiness of exposed connections. There is a soft, yet constant sound that penetrates the silence; makes me feel fuzzy inside. Like an army of ants crawling over my skin. I can almost feel their little steps vibrating as they navigate around my hair follicles. And suddenly, there are sharp cries, moans and shouts, but then they hushed and interrupted. They are wizards of my consciousness.And just like that, like lasers phasing out, tranquility. Yes, I can feel my body melt and meld into the form that I am more comfortable with. I must have signed over my resilience or something, and accepted the terms of this transformation. I see the space invaders away, gone. And I can finally breathe.Stay with it, my therapist advised. She said that real healing came with time, time that I thought I had too much off, but nothing to do with it. And just like that, at the snap of the fingers, I accepted a lifeline.

Vision.

I see sounds and I hear myself contemplate around new beginnings; what joy have they given me. The sight of expression and the sound of silence that speaks to me in volumes of newly found knowledge, and each click into the sorrow weep of my innocence can their lights ferry me into soothing realms. The once toxic fumes of uncertainty have lifted their veils and evaporated through the pores of my emotional ceiling, no longer enclosing me in tunnels of the dreary. Instead, I find myself involved in the illusions that have presented themselves in front of me. What a revelation in the prescribed help that has been given. And what insanity that I have for too long not pursued this myself.Or for myself.Oh, what clarity in a box of dreams, whose mysteries I have vanquished. I have opened a toolbox to reveal my helpers and their cures and talking therapies. Each rabid wrench grinds against my doubts and pulls me apart by each nut, and takes away the screws that have spiralled into nightmares, deep inside my skin. The rivets of my creation, as a vision of myself, reflect upon the darkness when this vision of rejuvenation casts out its last burning flame. And each of these tools piece me back together, piece by piece, like a set of prescribed kits, and help me see beyond the life that I have sold to myself.Or told myself.There is now substance and depth to the sounds that I once ignored. I have the power to control even the most remote feelings that scrape along my thoughts, and modulate the vast volume of opportunities at hand’s reach. Is this freedom? Free from the barriers that have once controlled me, and who even used me, whose existence did only but stop me from going out into the world. Now the world has come to me. And as I have welcomed this gift to screen my many hidden emotions and silenced thoughts, I give to them my willingness to change.For a change.Even though distance has once hampered my growth, and has even stopped me in my tracks, I welcome it now. This is what my therapist promised to me: the reimagination of silence not as unspoken words but as words that are unheard. To create a metaphysical distance of remoteness where sounds are not retrieved as highlights of my past consciousness, but to hear sounds like nature’s wavy cascades of background noise. A voice without conviction and only hold to anchors that I want to hold on; and let others that I don’t want, sink into the depths of unaltered noise.