Thursday, January 17, 2008

The Saddest thing is Silence

The saddest thing is silence, and when noiseless rain falls, as it is now, silence seems to engulf everything, me reduced to dust, each fabric of my existence quivering with fatal stabs to my essence, a thing I cannot name, touch, see or remember being taught.
The most significant rain that fell on me years ago was loud, in a flood of chatter and bravery, for love seemed possible and the world looked benign, even death and destruction seemed plausible, a place where logic could reason and seek a reasonable answer from.

One hides behind faces, behind the caustic wit of friendly shoulders, friends seem to be around everywhere, friendship seems eternal, the only natural thing that can save, save from all inner storms, embarrassing slips and shy dreams. The rain that fell years ago was warm, getting wet was a bliss, the skin glistened with water, pouring down from friendly skies.
Then friends dwindled into the mist of future tense, into promises of future meetings, without hint or shades of doubt, with the certain certainties of real promises, those that lie shattered, ones that will never rise again, for further rain has sunk them into oblivion, into a storm of mirrors.

The hints half guessed, the promises half made, the words and poems read aloud and fought for, names scratched on trees, on desks, on rocky cliffs, on benches in public places, the writers covered and discovered, left unread, new words added to a raw dictionary, like the moon's rictus, like yes, I do, Yes, I know, Yes let this rain fall, it is sweet.
And then just so suddenly, an enormous silence, where even the saddest music seemed heavy with doubt, the faintest reminder of the days past so dull, so odious, so painful. And rain fell, but this rain was different, for the skies did not open, only a wound, only now, only then, sometimes.

And the saddest rain is falling now, as I attempted to write "the saddest lines", but I tried so hard, my heart stopped, memories flooded in, oh, I trembled with desire but desirous of memories, for forgotten conversations, for faces that surely must be older as I saw everything so clearly and what did I see, just nothing.
And so, now, as this soundless rain outside is tearing me to bits, I want this silent rain to fall all night, so that tomorrow everything could be wet, wet and awful, soft and damp, flushed and clean, a little dark, a bit bright, as my eyes shake this sadness, and I dream of sadder lines, ones I could not write tonight, so I wrote this.

2 comments:

Marta said...

And every time I come to visit you, I found a gem, waiting, and talking of my pain, and of my present. How this happens? How do you know? And I feel so safe to say what and how I feel here, as it is your place and not mine, that even if I perceive my emotions made visible, I am not ashamed of them, of feel worry. One day, I would like to discover what makes people that do not know each other, to contemporary resonate with the same melodies. For now, I can only thank you for being there, and writing.

KUBLA KHAN said...

Oh I don't know, but sensitivities are not bound by time or place.
i am pleased that you liked what i wrote, for it is about failure to write, what i actually wanted to escaped me.
that rain fell and since it is not raining now, these words are a testimony of sorts.