The silence is deafening.
I turn on the fan to fill the emptiness with the soft methodical
humming of the swirling plastic blades.
I know I must rest my weary mind, but the idea of ceasing effort
to make sense of it all is a feat which seems impossible.
My thoughts shift from one thing to another as if my consciousness
was in a battle whirling its sword, fighting
for the will to conclude a grueling and epic duel. My soul longs
for a splinter of freedom from this utter turmoil that has become
my life. The tears from my eyes are beckoning for release with
the freedom to spill over my florid cheek,
but the masses are limited to a few scarce beads.
What barricade must be ruined to allow this outpouring of emotion?
What will release me from this aching loneliness?
How do I put one foot in front of the other when
my soul begs for intermission from this wicked game of life?
Sorrow calls to me with a whisper carried by the wind, but
the silence is deafening.

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