Silence, just silence; a quiet so deep it touches and wraps one within it and covers one’s ears. Felt as sharply as heard, the skin taut as an eardrum trembling to listen, poised to protect what’s inside. Good moods don’t survive long in country like this. The quiet is calling the quiet within, and the two overcome what is real.
Can’t take too much more of the rain. It is washing away my coating of wax, exposing my grain to warping and staining its carefully tended veneer. Nothing but wet things to think about, their stillness is sadness to me. Two days, maybe three for survival, no more. Longer perhaps, for the body.
We all need to strip down and dance for the sun.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology