A few weeks ago I endured one of the worst cases of insomnia I have ever experienced. What follows is the writing of a sleep-weary individual. Seriously, in the span of sixty-three hours I slept just under six, and those sleep periods were hit and miss. Mostly miss; ugh!
I might have been a lil loopy when I wrote this piece, and admittedly, Dr. Who may have an influence, but hey, at least I didn’t raid the refrigerator. 😉 I also penned several poems during that time, but I realized after some sleep that most of them are gibberish. Figures.
Keep reading, if you dare. L
It was a statue, nothing more, but Malcolm couldn’t help himself.
He started: “I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I ask and I ask, always the same questions: ‘What’s wrong? What have I done? You’re angry, I can see that, but you never say a word.’”
The statue stood silent.
“Your silence accuses, you know that, right? It screams manipulation. ‘You have done this. You have said that. You have walked away. You have given up on us.’”
The statue stared.
“I’ve tried being patient. I’ve tried waiting. I’ve tried confrontation. I‘ve tried getting to the bottom of it all, but you will not listen. Will not reply. Will not even acknowledge me.”
The statue didn’t acknowledge Malcolm.
“So, I’m to think what?”
The statue didn’t respond.
“I see, I see, you can’t say. Is that it?”
The statue didn’t say.
“You feel beaten down? Alone? Maybe that I’m too negative, is that it?”
Malcolm waited for a response.
“That’s how you see me?” His face flushed with frustration.
The statue didn’t see.
“I know you can speak. I’ve heard you talk to others. I’ve see you interact with them. I know you’re singling me out for silence.”
The statue said nothing.
“Are you a coward, then? Is that why you remain mute?”
“Do you not care?”
“Is this shunning practice your normal mode of operation these days?”
“Can you not forgive?”
The statue didn’t forgive, or move, or respond in any way.
Malcolm moved away. “And now I suppose you’ll blame me for leaving you.” He looked over his shoulder one last time.
“Such a pity,” he whispered. “Stone and dry bones, they’re like seeds that fall among thorns; choked off. You’ve heard my words, but you will not understand; you’ve seen what I do, but perceive not its meaning. Hearts harden, until finally ears cannot hear and eyes cannot open. In the end, they can no longer turn, nor can they soften. Stone begets stone.”
The statue remained unmoved.