Mute

-If words are written but never read, will they ever mean? Do they wait silently, etched electronic pulses, for someone to give them breath? Do they feel; solitude, abandonment, isolation?
In the moments between sonambulance and oblivion, he’s wondered if words mean, if his words have ever meant. He recalls the words of others, some uttered, some read, each increasing the density of his heart, the whispered words of prayer lightening the weight of his soul, at times. Words of praise have sent him into a labyrinth of thought, further dissecting self and understanding; such words with gratitude have lifted his spirit.
Sometimes he hides behind the words, when he’s not poring over them. In his wrestling with syllables, the questions take leave and he’s left to build bridges of thought, leading nowhere in particular but round his mind. A mute, juxtaposing sense and sound, this is when he smiles without moving a muscle. Yet he feels his meaning is all his own, if there is in fact any. So he writes; from exhaustion at times, from the sparse joys of his trajectory and often, simply, when he’s made it past an avatar in his labyrinth-which makes the swirling daze of thought a little more perceptible, a little more lucid. Sometimes, it’s like a river flowing, sometimes, a staggered creek, sometimes, dried bedrock with beads of perspiration.
It is the showers in spring that keep him from drying out, completely. Sometimes they come and give him strength to continue building bridges of, perhaps, meaning.