The silence is deafening.
I hear nothing, feel nothing, sense nothing but the failing silence surrounding my fragile self.
To hope for the end
is it to hope for what end. End of silence, end of days, end of the end.
When the washing comes it soothes but momentarily, calms but briefly, gives hope but takes it right back.
When the roaring powers that be can shake up the once strikingly open existence, I ponder and question those powers. I look around at the masses that have relinquished their powers and I see strength. I look at myself without them and I see weakness, loss, mourning, a staggering feeling of incomplete ... everything.
When it ends, as all good and bad things do, the silence should take with it the glory it denies me this evening. The pretension that surrounds my ego and the pride that fuels my confidence and ambition.