free writing

Quiet. Listen. Don’t breathe, it gets in the way. Words linger, echo, trickle faintly down the stone sides of walls. The medium is there, within me, but it lacks a sufficient catalyst to set the compressions and expansions into motion that resembles music. A sea, an atmosphere of words. Is it that I’ve simply not lived enough? How necessary is having an experience to the conveying thereof? How close do you have to get to know the truth, how far to speak of it clearly? We’ve lapsed from ourselves. Too close, too far away. Wolves or angels – never human. How great a rift, souls torn asunder. Quiet, nervous, anticipation. Vibrations beneath the surface. Epicenters and shockwaves. Do you believe? Yes. Then why do you not tremble?