I’m a writer. One would think I would never run out of things to say.Au contraire, it has happened many times to me. When the words are gone, so is the magic. Silence is the last stop on this train track of life.
I used to joke with others, as a defense mechanism, that all that needed to be said already had. It was easier than admitting the truth; than conceding defeat. It was the path of least resistance. I used to think I wouldn’t go down without a fight, instead, I went mute.
There is a half truth to what was an off handed comment-there weren’t any more words that could stir the cauldron. All that could be conjured has lept into reality. The bunny has emerged from the hat. The spells have been incanted.
Unfortunately, there were so many things that were whited out, erased from the page, the mind, the heart. It’s a loss to the world when words disappear. Think of all the magic that could have been conjured by a simple sentence. Instead of a green, lush jungle;
What good could come out of it anymore? If no one is actively listening, why would I speak? It’s putting on a play in an empty theater, with all the same dramatics and histrionics. But no one is there to witness. Cobwebs and dust, instead of an audience seated. Instead of thunderous applause, deafening silence and the echoes of one’s own voice.
Sometimes, there just are no more words.