The hush of darkness had begun to settle. Night whispers were yawning. They were a bit cranky, as if they didn’t get enough sleep. It was the same amount they got yesterday. The same amount they would get tomorrow. They always got this much this time of year. The mixture of burning cedar and aroma of fresh coffee set the tone.

It would seem that each page written is in part, abstracts of our reflections or memories. As we turn to the page to start anew, will the words written be a declaration of the future or will they drive deeper into the past? Opening the doors that were meant to remain closed, releasing memories that once seeped, but now flood. We find ourselves drowning in the murky waters within the prison that our pain built.

He sat staring at a blank page. The page seemed to be looking back at him with the same stare. Perhaps it was a reflection of their shared frustration. He was trying to describe the image of the silhouettes dancing at sunrise. He just sat there trying to form his words into some sort of perfect form or acceptable stanza. Slowly the words came and he formed stanzas in perfect meter. It became clear his conformity knew no bounds. Line after line was written, as a gentle breeze from a cracked window caressed his face.

As the filled pages fell to the floor, the final sputters of the coffee pot signaled a new pot made. Its fresh aroma saturated his lungs, as he walked into the other room to retrieve more paper. With a fresh cup of coffee, he returned to his office to finish the screaming tale. Finally finished, he leaned back in his chair serenaded by the creaking leather. Exhaling in completion’s contentment, he began reading what he just created.

The first page danced in intention’s perfection, but remaining bellowed from his soul. It was clear he truly captured the essence of silhouette’s dance, and conformity only goes so far… Will it matter how many doors opened, portals gazed through, or notebooks filled? Will we truly say all that we hear in the silence? Things we have heard since our first breath. Words that come from the soul and we are a verse in its ballad. We subconsciously sway to its melody. What will we whisper to its bosom?

Or are we destined to have our soul’s screaming whispers fall upon the ears of a deaf-mute, as we struggle to tear out the chains from the walls of our bloodstone prisons.

Never realizing all we had to do ….

Is write the walls away

©2010 Mangus Khan (REAE) All Rights Reserved.

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