I don't feel anything today.
Nothing.
No stirring sounds.
No limitless voices.
Just a silent reverence for noise.
Noises outside and within.
That's all I feel.
Noise
and
Nothingness.
It would be a great title for a book,
If I could only pick up a pen.
But the pen bleeds.
And so do I.
On the inside,
because my brain would be too ashamed to be known otherwise.
I've tried walking.
There is a peace in nature I wish I had.
There is a peace in some people I wish I had.
This must be what Michaelangelo's David felt.
A beautiful figure.
Made of stone.
This is what Notre Dame's gargoyles felt.
Loathsome creatures.
Made of stone.
This is what my soul feels like.
An empty vessel.
Made of blood and sinew
And stone.
An empty vessel
Sealed in stone.