Miscellaneous

Silence

Silence.

Silence by the stations.

Silence by the stations every minute of every hour of every day of every year.

The noise has joined that silence. The same, unending noises. Always the same. They've joined that hum of silence.

Everywhere I go. Different noises, but the same silence. They all share the same silence.

So I sing. I sing, shattering the silence and all its noise. I bring an end to Sameness.

And those frozen gazes now freeze on me. I'm standing by the stations. Sameness is broken, and won't ever be again.

There's panic. Panic behind those frozen eyes. Sameness is gone. Sameness has ceased to exist. What to do now?

I continue singing. Should I cease? Should I nail Sameness to a cross? Let the world see that undeniable corpse.

If I sing every day, then I have to be at these stations every day at the same hour; I'll become Sameness. The old Sameness will stay dead, but a new Sameness will arise. But if I don't sing, it'll be silent, and all those noises will join the silence, and then all these frozen, panicked gazes will dig Sameness's dead body from the grave, and parade around as though Sameness had always been alive.

I must sing. I must sing and fight against becoming Sameness. The looks are dark. They're hostile now, irritated, shadowed stares. I've killed their dear friend, Sameness.

A wave. I feel it washing over me, their hatred, the sudden bubbling of their thoughts. All was silent, all was still through all the noise.

These fountains, long unused - they're sputtering with retching coughs of slime and rust and waste. It's vile. All that bubbling - it's vile.

I'm surrounded. I can feel that fetid water, long stagnant and unflowing - pushing, crushing, drowning out my song.

I can't breathe. There's no air. I have to continue singing. I have to finish the song. Reach the cadence, raise the cross.