Honesty of the Unspoken

"The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence." - Sylvia Plath, "The Bell Jar"


Two months, or, close to three months of the year have rolled on...

Sneaking shadows laying in corners. They threaten to reach out with terrifying hands. Peaceful colours tell of day's stories and nature's night lights resurface. Safe sounds are disappearing by the fall of a silent darkened veil. And cautious steps carrying a fearful heart, whose faith rests in lighted trails.

Some nights, some hours of the sleeplessness -- eerie whispers are laced with panic shivers, over exaggerating a phobic imagination of the future.

Of course, it is painfully annoying to have a journal filled with fantasies of the past: dead, erased and non-existent at last. One that is stuck between cracks sealed with dirt. But, it is more than a luxury if I could shove future into an old jar, tightly concealed with a grip so strong nobody could re-open it again.

And now, my only question is this -- why or when have I settled in the unquiet darkness where the noise of the silence overwhelms my heart and haunts my conscious mind?