The Sound

“Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear” Run - Snow Patrol

A bloated moon was trying to con its way into my room early Saturday morning, as if it felt the need to witness my insomnia once again.

My eyelids finally weighed in over my thoughts and I do believe I drifted off for approximately fifteen minutes, or maybe a lifetime, depending on your perception. It was the “wee” hours, when most tongues are collectively engaged in something far more enjoyable than verbiage, or they have signed on for snoring and swallowing detail only, so it was relatively quiet.

These January nights allow for open windows and where I live in Florida is quite flat so noise of any kind carries through screens without effort. The soft rustling of eyelashes brushing pillow every time I blinked was the only recognized layer over the silence, until I heard the sound.

That sound. Many have heard it and for some, it was the last thing audible. The unforgiving, callous sound of taking. The sound that took everything from me once, so I knew what came next.

5:17 A.M. Ten minutes passed before I heard the sirens. No helicopters.

That evening, on my way to pick up my friends, I saw the herd of mourners already placing floral markers in the dark.

My return trip was encased in fog that even werewolves would stay out of (I wonder if they drive?). It was nearly 24 hours later.

I found the story on the internet. The sound took three, one with the same first name as mine who was taken from me.

The name immediately triggers thoughts about those eyes that used to see the real me without expectations - they see for someone else now. The heart that symbolically belonged to me (even though I didn’t deserve it) saved yet another. All in all, what was taken from me was given to 6 others.

I take that fact and cover my ears with it, but I can still hear the sound.

Currently listening:
Final Straw
By Snow Patrol
Release date: 2004-03-30

Question Air 8/19/08

A lazy breeze, overwhelming gale force winds, blustering blizzards.

Air.

Gasp it in. Longingly sigh it out.

Inhaling the idea of what could be or what once was, exhaling a scream for what is.

The best thing about having hair (H + AIR = hair) is feeling it flirtatiously fondled by the zephyrs.

Skin just lives to be tickled by the invisible breath made from stirs in the atmosphere.

Does the same breeze come around to you twice in one lifetime? Are there new ones, or are they the same gusts that danced across time, maybe bumping into the likes of Marilyn Monroe or John Lennon along the way?

Imagine drawing in the same breath that exited from Adolf Hitler, would you choke on it?

If you exert a yell with everything you are, will that air penetrate time and send warmth to the ones you lost? Or, perhaps, a chill to the ones that lost you?

You can hold your breath, but does it hold you?

Air can't be ensnared no matter how hard you try to catch it; it's ALL free – for now.


Currently listening :
The Sun Is Often Out
By Longpigs
Release date: 1997-02-25