20120731 the things you say part 12a

20120731 the things you say part 12a

All those years of craving silence. All those snapped shut up shut ups at people as my busy buzzing head filled itself with noise of its own making. Yak yak yak. Chatter chatter. No space for more noise, outside noise, noise of the world.

Tick. Tick. The quietude explodes all around me. I am paused, poised, toes over the edge ready to dive, to leap to dance to spin to hear you say something anything. A word. A whisper. Some confirmation.

The corridor remains empty. No tread of sole against Lino, no slap slap, creak or trip. The walls whistle occasionally as air is trapped by the wind in the cavities, bricks missing, barred windows, still ill fitting. I lay, exhausted by the action of action, unrequited action and watch the extended arm of a too large uncommon tree tapping on the glass.  Old glass. So old it has run downwards over time, thickened at the base, blurred and opaque when it should be seamless seeing, inside to outside, in here to out there. The tapping branch I can see. The leaves I do not recognise.

Days upon days with nothing to do. I dreamed of this. All those years I dreamed of this, the time, the space to do nothing but listen to my thoughts and make the work, the work, the most necessary work. Now, the days stretch and I have lost a sense of urgency. Precious time bleeds into itself and I have forgotten my panic. I have become dumb to my ending and instead of constant productivity, thought, I allow myself days of inertia. I succumb to the tired that I would have fought off. I lay. I hope. I dream. It is you. It is you.

Still nothing. Still nothing.

There is a black wire that snakes through the branches of the tree outside this window.  It hits against the trunk and moves past, stretching out from here to where? I would look if the impetus were here. It is not.

I have said to myself, take action. Life is for living. For living. Keep alive. Feel your pulse. Feel that heart skip, miss, slow, but do not let it deaden. Screw hard fists and show them, push them forth in the face of complacency. She is not welcome here. Be brave, be true, speak as it is, say your piece, hide not in falsehoods. But oh, action taken, I am tired. I want the next bit. The joy. It is absent.

In it creeps, in it comes. Always. The self. Pick it apart, pull it apart. Hound it. Batter it. Smash it to pieces. Beat it. Stamp upon the self.

Pull it together. Stop. It is not you. It is not you.

A sound, my attention is drawn to a sound. At my door. I missed the slap of sole on Lino. I was wrapped up in my self. I missed a sound. It could be the others, one or more, come to remind me that i am just shit just shit.

A voice, out of nowhere, unknown, confirms without showing their face that I am to go away. For a bit. Just a while. Short time.

It is not for me to question. Argue. Shout. Cry.

I will go.