Is it that these empty shells that sit and stare and make noises of laughter and breathing—could it be that they think I’m talking to them?
Don’t they know that I see no one?
That I hear no thing?
Don’t they know I am blind?
Don’t they know?
I can only talk to you when I am not here.
And all I can say is what I hear;
spilling out words here and there with no sequence and no cadence;
no metric and no rhyme.
Don’t they know this would be much more clear if they were not here not listening, and I was not here not saying?
And only the emptiness behind the emptiness
would create layers and layers of pauses of silences,
until between the not me and the not you,
it would create this space
and play a game of unending eternities.
A game of heat and cold, of sweat, of fire.
What can I say if it’s all endless?
What can I see if it’s all horizon?
What can I know if it’s all darkness of an endless night?
What can I do?
How can I move if it’s all forgot and gone and lost?
Like the pains of man.
Like the suffering of existence.
Like the hope in the eyes of a dead child.