You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...


-Walt Whitman


7.2.11

hollow peace


Truth comes from a place of silence. I don't get it because I thrive in chaos. When the loud sounds and the echoes they made finally dissipate, it's like dusts are settling from everywhere. A black night cracks, light seeping through them and revealing the real once concealed. It is in that gap that you can really see, and hear the resounding growls and endless murmurs within. The haunting thoughts sharpen, blades ready to slice through exposed weakened flesh. I'd have to deal with them. But I don't want to. I am too afraid.

And so I would fill my head again with anything to scramble the images, to complicate things, to hide what's really should have been on the surface. It's like throwing paint over a graffitied wall. The walls thicken as a result of the routine leaving splotches everywhere. On the ground. On me. On the people that face the same wall. They don't have the slightest clue of what's really on their faces. And in an act of pathetic display of cowardice, I would shout as loud as I can on the inside, the noise breaking through me and into the unknown leaving in its tracks a buzzing sound of hollow peace-that fragile moment where a strong wind troubles the fine grains of dust back into the air blocking every ugly figment of conscious thought. It is when the eyes lose focus turning everything into bokeh lights, well-disguised and beautiful. A conflicted moment when time stops and days pass in just a few beats of a troubled heart as years grow shorter including life itself and the promise of relief from such misguided deed.




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