Listen intensely for them. The sounds of silence are all around, echoing with the faint drum of a heartbeat. A chill wind in the back of the mind blows doubts to the forefront, doubts of a long forgotten image.
A piece of history wrapped in old linen, discolored by decades gone by. Photographs of long dead illusions with faces warped from age create images. A journal encased in wrinkled leather of burnished orange lying at the bottom of a chest, buried in years of forgotten debris holds memories of the past. And a tarnished looking glass that reflects the furrows of time.
Age is what we see it for, some forgotten life well hidden in the darkest alcove of the psyche. But do we really not recall past mistakes that we never had the chance or even the intent of mending? Do we refuse to listen to the heart and what it means to tell us? In the beginning of death when we lie cold and alone in our beds of white cotton, will we then recall?
We would like to believe that we wouldn’t, but with Fate at hand we will not have the option. We must face our demons of guilt and regret. For we will then be judged like those of us who have so easily judged in our lives. If we go on in the hopes of someday perfecting ourselves, will those judgments we received be lesson enough, or will we live to craft our mistakes again. No, we will just craft them differently.
The reflection in the mirror will continue to fade, while those old photographs are returned to that yellowed linen to be hidden from eyes grown cold. The sounds of silence are the loudest when the soul has no regard for the wronged. And the deafening tempo of the heart is all that will be heard through the echoes of a life lived in remorse.
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Submission Name: The Sounds Of Silence
