There is a hollow quiet about me. A silence that is insincere, because it is produced by fear. The desperate pull never leaves me. As a child, it would cause me to pound my tiny fists against trees, expecting a magical creature to respond to my call. Because I was delusional. Because we all have to have faith that someone bigger than the last disaster exists. Someone has to have the answers, and if they are guarded jealously by a monster, an impassioned plea will persuade them to spill each secret at a vagabond’s feet.
My delusion manifested not just in unmeasured action, but in grand production. I saw those creatures before me. Small, noble, benign things; looking at me with a compassion I would never find in my father’s eyes.
Now, my haunted mind is not a kind one. It does not have the capacity to create lovely things. In my search for a holy collection of proof there is some kind of god, I have come up with stones, and broken objects.
I had chosen to see good, at the cost of ignoring the truth for too long. But denial’s lifespan is short. The darkness will make one sick, and then all is felt. Every ache, every spasm, every labored inhalation.