I love people
Don’t ask me
To mingle too much
Or chatter too freely
Bout small talk ‘n stuff
I’d rather just listen
Or go for a walk
Accomplish a goal
Or even indulge one on one
With meaningful talk
About whatever matters
Matter most to you
(Be it work or religion
don’t ask me to shmooze,
Or debate trivialities
Good grief, better conflict with content
than pointlessly busy
Nothing wrong with action,
In fact it’s quite necessary
But the core of my objection
Is determining what is & isn’t
What’s the point of something if only to interrupt quiet contented existing?
There’s so much empty smack of doing
Solely for the sake of ‘sociability’
No one should have to be
Ever and always up to 'things’
Sometimes to learn purpose
You have to be free from others
To learn from the silence
Or mistakes / tragedy
That the best things
Aren’t always activities
But shared experience of being
Informal lessons enlightening
Time’s passing shows what’s lasting
Life’s frailty fostering value of worth
Eventual revelation superior to vain busywork…
Poem for introverted introspectives
(You don’t have to come if you’re not ready for this peculiarity party of one on one intensity)
“Mr. Yeti is usually a nice guy, napping in the peace and quiet of Yeti Mountains. But sometimes he can get dangerously hungry, and running around looking for food only makes him hungrier. Which means bad luck for anybody who ends up crossing his way in the forests.
Although he doesn’t hold a grudge against the puny humans who disturb his silence with their “skiing”, Mr. Yeti does like the way all those winter clothes keep their juicy insides warm. Mr. Yeti calls them Burritos on Sticks.”
Then your hand again
touched my chest in the dark,
sheltering the cadence of my dreams.
kept cutting time
with its tiny saw.
As in a forest
chips of wood,
of boughs or nests
without disturbing the silence,
without altering the cool darkness,
in your invisible hand
the watch kept cutting,
fell like leaves,
splinters of shattered time,
small black feathers.
Pablo Neruda, from “Ode to a Watch in the Night,” Selected Odes of Pablo Neruda
(California Press, 1990)
The early morning sun found Sam perched on the nightstand, legs dangling off the edge as he watched a news report from a state away. The shower ran in the background, filling the air with the reassuring patter of water. It washed away the disturbing silence that never failed to unnerve Sam after his recent abduction. The tiny scrapings of a lockpick in the door continually sounded in his head when he was left on his own. Like now.
On the television, a helicopter cam panned over the landscape, showing the destroyed half of a town, crumpled wreckage everywhere.
“Confusion runs rampant as the town has been declared unsafe for habitation. The earthquake last week coincides with the tornado yesterday down to the exact date and time, spreading rumors of a town-wide curse that afflicts it all. All superstitious notions aside, evacuation procedures are being followed by the mayor.”
Sam frowned to himself as he contemplated the report. Two natural disasters, spaced apart by exactly seven days, down to the second? “Definitely not natural,” he muttered under his breath.
He brushed a hand over the new journal sitting on his lap, loving the leather covering on it. There was still room in his older journal, but he was eager to break in the new one. The pages were even gold leafed, giving the small book a professional feel.
He opened it to the first page. While Dean was in the shower, Sam filled in his name, claiming the book as his own in delicate handwriting that humans couldn’t read without a magnifying glass to help. Sam Winchester. After a moment of hesitation, at the bottom of the page, in bold lettering, he put If lost, return to Dean Winchester, figuring it couldn’t hurt to have a back-up plan in place if it ever got lost.
Fools said I, you do not know Silence like a cancer grows Hear my words that I might teach you Take my arms that I might reach you But my words like silent raindrops fell And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed To the neon God they made And the sign flashed out its warning In the words that it was forming And the signs said, ‘The words of the prophets Are written on the subway walls and tenement halls’ And whispered in the sounds of silence
For an entire klik it seemed Trepan wasn’t sure if he was looking
into a mirror or if a mech was standing there. Only the crazy
whirring of his optics desperately trying to adjust disturbed the
silence. He decided that, indeed, this was another mech.
He tried to walk around the chair in his office but ended up
involuntarely sitting down.
„Well, great dat you’re ‘ere, y'can do my job. I’m just gunna be
sittin here 'little…“
Disturbing Michifer stuff, partly inspired by my sick imagination, partly by thissick post.
Silence is fragile. Too fragile, as if heavy hammer has stopped right above the anvil. All little sounds gather on thin thread between the two of them. Two of them… sometimes Michael feels like there is nobody else in the whole world. Just two of them. But there is someone else’s blood on the blade in tight grip of Lucifer’s right hand. Someone else’s tears soaked his shirt.
He stopped on his track as soon as he saw Michael. Michael wasn’t supposed to be home. And Lucifer wasn’t supposed to come home covered in blood. But Michael is glad he did. Michael wants to say something. He wants to say that he understands. But silence is holy, it belongs with temple, not with their small appartement. He hopes Luce understands that he understands. That he shouldn’t be afraid. That he shouldn’t torment himself. Michael would never judge him. More than that… Lucifer may kill Michael as well. It won’t confuse Michael at all. He probably won’t even scream. He wouldn’t dare to. But… Lucifer won’t touch him. And that’s a problem. He backs to the wall when Michael approaches him.
Michael is looking Lucifer right in the eye and is smiling, when he closes his hand around the knife. Still sinks into his flesh and cuts deep. And Lucifer doesn’t notice until thick red drops start falling on the floor. He tries to yank the knife away, but Michael’s grip is stronger. Michael is stronger. Surrendering Lucifer let’s the hilt go first, then Michael let’s go off the blade. The noise it makes is not enough to disturb the silence. But it’s enough to prompt Lucifer do it insted. Not that Michael would have any of it. He puts a finger of another hand on frozen lips before any sound can make it through. Lucifer’s breath is quick and so warm, his head hung. Michael joins their foreheads and only his finger separates their lips. He doesn’t resist when Lucifer in quick movement changes their positions. His brother’s hands hold his shoulders and he looks like he’s the one in pain. Maybe he is.
Michael takes his face in both hands, painting the pale with red. It’s pretty. Beautiful. He wants Lucifer to make him beautiful too. Wants his mark carved on his back and burned on his chest. Breath hitches in his throat when Lucifer takes that hand and kisses it. Again and again, licking at the blood still oozing from the wound. Michael has to swallow a moan that rushes from bellow his chest.
One day Lucifer will understand him too. One day he will give him what he wants. Wings. But this… this is a blessing too. Darkness. Silence. Darkness. Silence. Every breath is a prayer. And between every inhale and exhale an angel falls from the night sky.
I was always fascinated by the business, had several experiences while growing up that made me even more interested. There’s also the fact that I don’t deal very well with the living, the dead don’t bother me, I can work in silence without being disturbed and to me that’s great.