Whisper.

Ssh. Don’t make a sound, they might just hear you. Let them not hear for she is not ready to hear. Exhale. Inhale. The barest of sighs that’s all you may make. She has no patience to listen as she move, move moves. The words are too meek, the thoughts too rude. Waste them not on deaf, stone-walled ears. Think them not, for therein lies definite death of a dream. There lies no greater pain than the breaking of a heart and the tearing of a dream. Sharp, vicious tears fragment your being, infinite, almost invisible; they mark you till you die. On the darkest of nights, when memory mists the air, they shine silver, a scar, a brand. Let that never be. Tiptoe across. Steady and Swift. To linger is a luxury not for you. To stay is not for you or your dreams alike. Hold. Clench. Never let go. The world within you is meant for you and you alone. The blessed few share and receive in turn but you are not of that. You are not blessed. Neither are you special. Meaning is a trap, a vortex of sorrow deepening as the importance you give increases. You may speak but speak what she decides for you to speak. You may possess a face but that which is pleasing and appropriate. You may be but no different from your neighbour. When within you, you rage and pay heed to me, for you will rage, be wary it not spill. For even that would be a waste and to waste is not for you.

You may be indifferent for therein maybe the only way to be sane, if that is what you crave. But most importantly, you may only whisper. The pain of being mute in an invisible world lessens greatly when you speak less, thus whisper only when it is of utmost necessity. Let them not hear you, for they will delight in your misery as they crush you. They will remind you of the speck you are. Pay heed to my words as I whisper them to you.

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