Let’s say you wanted to take all the silences you have gathered and put them in your fist. You make a small bone-cage for your thoughts and you let them writhe between your fingers like infant mice, scratching and soft all at once, desperately warm and full of wasting potential. Let’s say these thoughts got away from you: would you catch them to snap their necks before they tug at your tongue?
What do you do when you run out of options?
My head is full of noise, my lungs are full of disease. I can feel the sludge of regret weight down my cavities. I can feel the insistent tug in the middle of my wilting chest every time I miss a step, or a crack on the sidewalk, every time your smile twists and shatters it with a cruelty you so readily deny. But it’s a strong and able muscle. I’ve cradled it in my leathers again and again.
Let’s say the silences you have gathered were already dead in your hands. Let’s say that the race against enthropy was never the aphex of your achievements. Let’s say that there’s just nothing to say anymore: the silences have grown roots and sprouted down your systems; your whole body is a twisting network of secrets that neither my lips nor teeth can pry. My heart has a way of favouring patterns. My hands have a way of—
Lessons, they remember lessons, and lines and lies best of all.