I saw a bird get hit by a car today. It tried to fly under the machine’s chassis. So graceful as it went in and so mangled once it came out. Snapped wings and confusion. A metaphor could be spun, but why bother tampering with perfection?
It’s awfully tragic that as I find peace with the world, the world can’t find peace with itself.
And how laughable it is that as I rise up from the bottom, I pass all those that were once so far above me and they are falling.
You asked me what it was like, once, to be in possession of so much power. I couldn’t answer you then because it was all so new but I think I have that definitive response now and, to be honest, it’s “I’ve never felt weaker.” There’s only so much one can do from up here without an ant assuming you’re doing it blindly. And that’s really what this is all about. I’m a big bad bird come to snatch away the ants and destroy their homes, or at least that’s how I’m painted. Little do these ants know that I walk amongst them, I walk below them and past them every day and sometimes they don’t notice me. I like that. They only choose to acknowledge my presence when I’m above them, or when I’ve bumped into one of them. They opt to shout and scream and toss their hostilities to me and I catch every last one.
I, too, am an ant. One which chose to build up instead of down and now I am stuck somewhere between criminal and hero. Yet, I am neither. I am friend of few, and enemy of many, but I continue each and every day to walk amongst my fellow ant in hopes that I will one day be recognized as one of them, as my own kind, but until that day I march alone. A pity, truly. I could do so much for them if they would only give me a chance, a chance to walk side-by-side, and talk one-on-one, one-and-many. For now, though, I look of a bird to them. Do I look like one to you?
Warning: The following story contains acts of what could be called uncomfortably violent scenarios. If you’re overly sensitive, you’ve been warned. If not, I hope you enjoy. I wrote this a few months ago.
His incessant scribbling came to an abrupt end for the first time in hours. The sun had departed for the night long ago and where it once stood was the moon, breaking through the window to illuminate a crimson-stained rug over a worn wood floor. His room was an octagon with empty bookshelves lining the walls; all walls besides the windowed one and the door. It was an intimidating door, made up of two smaller doors held together by unnecessary rivets. One was meant to open into the room, the other was designed to open outward. To his dismay, he was on the wrong side of the door. Then again, all sides were wrong sides, for pushing did nothing but negate his energy and push him back whenever he had tried to leave.
The man, named Mister Nefrisognit (Ellesian for Nighthammer), as stated before, had stopped writing whatever he was writing, hunched over his desk like death over an electric chair, to examine a peculiar creature examining his leaf of paper.
“Peculiar,” the little thing offered up to Mister.
“And what is that?” the man responded, unphased by the bug’s ability to speak. He was more curious about the indigo wings sprouting from its shell, its exoskeletal body.
“Your writing,” it tapped a tiny hand to its tiny chin, shaking its tiny head back and forth, “It’s grossly inconsistent.”
Mister buried his brow deep within itself and retorted without a worry “But this is only the first draft, you see?”
The creature fluttered their wings and looked up to Mister through marble green eyes, revealing a chest marked with black lines that looked better placed with a painter’s brush than by nature. “But you never draft. Ever.”
Finally, with a slight jolt, the man became the slightest bit bothered, “Ever? How long have you been watching me, insect?”
“For… well, ever,” it shuttered its eyes hastily, “I’ve been tasked with making sure you don’t leave this room until the time is right. I make sure your miniature fridge over there is always stocked, and the secret hatch under your rug remains leading to a toilet and shower.”
“I should crush you n—-” Mister gripped his pencil tighter.
“Don’t. If you crushed me, that door would unlock and you’d be free… But it wouldn’t last for long. You must believe me, in your heart, that you can’t leave this room until the time is right.” The bug stepped up and onto the paper, brushing against Mister’s hand. “But I cannot prevent you if you wish to be free more than alive.”
As Mister peered down into the creature’s eyes, his frustration diminished and he set his pencil down and released his fist. He would choose to believe in this bug, this odd butterfly of a small man, and waited. Years drifted by, decades even, and the man continued on with his usual business within the room. After he gave in, his tiny guest retreated through an equally tiny hole in the ceiling, and wasn’t seen again…
The voices in her head came from the beyond. She was not crazy, not in the slightest, but haunted by people she had tried to forget. What was not accounted for was the fact that there is no such thing as a fresh start when ghosts roam freely. These apparitions sought to drive the poor girl to an early grave just to spite her, and they were getting closer and closer to achieving this. No matter what medications were prescribed, no matter how padded the room, they would always break through. Why? Of course, because a sickness of the mind is vastly different in both creation and treatment than the presence of a phantasm.
There’s that moment where sound gives way to silence and you succumb to it because, honestly, you have no other option. You think you’re in control and that everything is going according to plan but then it happens. Silence happens. At once, you both hate and enjoy the odd change. The music lifting you up on your journey, through all the light and dark, has ceased. Did you really need it to begin with? Was it really that powerful a facet of your life? The answer, oddly enough, is yes and no. What guided you was nothing more than sounds, pleasant sounds to you, no less, but sounds altogether. Music is the world, it’s all around. Every noise can be transferred to song, to beat, to rhythm and verse. When the silence creeps in, it is just another song, unheard. It is the universal lyric. Silence can be found in moments of happiness, of sorrow, pain, grandeur, realization, death, birth, of life.
Music never dies, for there will always be the silent song.
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((i.e. my headphones broke))
