so i don't have to hear a thing i say

ii. so i don't have to hear a thing i say

estefaaano_writes 

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i would speak of things i comprehend not,

so i give myself my own ears,

put them into these hands,

turn them over as stones gathered from the wreckage,

evidence of a life i cannot fully account for.

i put my hands over my own ears,

and press until the world grow distant and cottoned,

still, i hear everything.

that's the nature of this affliction,

the silence a man built around himself is never soundproof,

walls always a little thin, 

his own voice passes through no matter when.

so i don't have to hear a thing i say, 

i leave it here, 

whatever it was, whatever it meant.

i set it down in my own empty hands,

and walk away from the ink.

for ink requires thinking,

and thinking requires descent, 

recurring to minorities which 

hath always known how to handle me.

my memory of what's good is passing,

i knew it would.

i watched it dissipated as though it were inevitable.

and told myself it mattered not,

a man may live without his memory of goodness

and still be counted among the living.

when all else hath gone to silence,

that part made no sense to the rest of me.

☁︎