Such hurts without words
I do not have the words to convey the feelings, the images, the motions that will not be expressed but cannot be ignored. It's like a shadow that you can sense but can't figure out what exactly it reflects, or a star that you know is there but cannot see in the sky, or lights that you know are shining somewhere off in the distance but cannot see for the fog.
I feel trapped tonight. Desperate, flailing, trapped. And somewhere between myself and the things I don't want to remember, there is sitting some dark barrier. Between myself and the way of healing, there is some wall that I cannot break - some fortress that I cannot penetrate. Perhaps it is no more than my fear - perhaps there is more in it. I just know that I sense it, like some place I cannot go - like some world I dare not touch, like some thing I cannot know.
Part of me wants to scream for the pain - part of me wants to allow it to shatter, like a broken mirror, where it lies. If only I could escape it...
If only I could hear you now. Hear those cries that I cannot be sure are there, in the night and the stillness and the air that is so unbreathable that it is suffocating me.
I'm so tired, afrighted, unexplainably cold tonight - shivering from the inside out because somehow something called it all to mind, and now I can't forget. Eyes burning like some kind of firelight in the thick black night where the stars ought to be shining - but instead I see...this. The tormentor of a soul so scared to admit to itself that it still feels for the fear of being dragged under the current, being drown in the tide, being lulled back to sleep in the warm water where death is sure to drift in the dead of this night.
I can find a million words, a thousand images - all good enough to explain all of the things they stand for. I could write pages on things like the make up of a star or the heat of an english summer - but I can't find words enough to express that which is buried somewhere within myself...
I could comfort, and empathize, and understand those that fear and feel and shiver alike - but I can't find the means to express something so base, so simple, so ... ... so unworthy of any expression at all.
The only conclusion is there are no words to express. There is no language, of man or otherwise on this earth, that could make the cold convulsions of the heart audible. There is no word, no voice, no stirring in any branch of any tree or any brushing of any blade of grass that will serve to speak to the breadth of the horror inside the stillness I cannot breach tonight. There is no tongue, no possible utterance of any creature on this plane that could speak to the stirrings hidden in the chambers of a heart, charred black by too many things.
And it's so simple to say: there are no words. Yet what does one do when language, when tongues of man, when all of the possible ways to express a thing are closed, cut off, useless refuse unable to be tamed? When every avenue is inadequate - and yet, the thing must be taken from the chambers of the heart before the fire extinguishes all life once known to be there? What is one to do when the thing cannot be said, cannot be known, can hardly be felt in more than the sobs and groans of that which it already is? When the thought is no more than eyes shut against the night and the sigh of a breath escaping from too deep within and the fall of the shoulders, head laid in palms, eyes cast to somewhere below the ground that still supports the frame?
When there is no stillness that could be held, no utterance of any cry that could suffice, no hope to get the thing from the seat where it dwells; what can the soul do? When the world is no solace and the wind even just a reminder of the thing itself that is so inexpressible, so deep that the knife cannot touch it - that even, you fear, death could not mar it. When the world is not enough to withhold it and the eyes are not enough to know it, and the hands not enough to claw at it and at least partially mangle the surface of it. When all of the forms of human thinking and reasoning and feeling are powerless against that which threatens to bring the darkest night of all. When foolish hope and vain trust and sudden joy cannot get near enough the thing to mean anything at all - and only the darkness deems what the thing is allowed to be...
Then what more can be done but to await the storm to fall, the eye and the calm of the thing to pass, and to hope that you survive the night?
-RK
I feel trapped tonight. Desperate, flailing, trapped. And somewhere between myself and the things I don't want to remember, there is sitting some dark barrier. Between myself and the way of healing, there is some wall that I cannot break - some fortress that I cannot penetrate. Perhaps it is no more than my fear - perhaps there is more in it. I just know that I sense it, like some place I cannot go - like some world I dare not touch, like some thing I cannot know.
Part of me wants to scream for the pain - part of me wants to allow it to shatter, like a broken mirror, where it lies. If only I could escape it...
If only I could hear you now. Hear those cries that I cannot be sure are there, in the night and the stillness and the air that is so unbreathable that it is suffocating me.
I'm so tired, afrighted, unexplainably cold tonight - shivering from the inside out because somehow something called it all to mind, and now I can't forget. Eyes burning like some kind of firelight in the thick black night where the stars ought to be shining - but instead I see...this. The tormentor of a soul so scared to admit to itself that it still feels for the fear of being dragged under the current, being drown in the tide, being lulled back to sleep in the warm water where death is sure to drift in the dead of this night.
I can find a million words, a thousand images - all good enough to explain all of the things they stand for. I could write pages on things like the make up of a star or the heat of an english summer - but I can't find words enough to express that which is buried somewhere within myself...
I could comfort, and empathize, and understand those that fear and feel and shiver alike - but I can't find the means to express something so base, so simple, so ... ... so unworthy of any expression at all.
The only conclusion is there are no words to express. There is no language, of man or otherwise on this earth, that could make the cold convulsions of the heart audible. There is no word, no voice, no stirring in any branch of any tree or any brushing of any blade of grass that will serve to speak to the breadth of the horror inside the stillness I cannot breach tonight. There is no tongue, no possible utterance of any creature on this plane that could speak to the stirrings hidden in the chambers of a heart, charred black by too many things.
And it's so simple to say: there are no words. Yet what does one do when language, when tongues of man, when all of the possible ways to express a thing are closed, cut off, useless refuse unable to be tamed? When every avenue is inadequate - and yet, the thing must be taken from the chambers of the heart before the fire extinguishes all life once known to be there? What is one to do when the thing cannot be said, cannot be known, can hardly be felt in more than the sobs and groans of that which it already is? When the thought is no more than eyes shut against the night and the sigh of a breath escaping from too deep within and the fall of the shoulders, head laid in palms, eyes cast to somewhere below the ground that still supports the frame?
When there is no stillness that could be held, no utterance of any cry that could suffice, no hope to get the thing from the seat where it dwells; what can the soul do? When the world is no solace and the wind even just a reminder of the thing itself that is so inexpressible, so deep that the knife cannot touch it - that even, you fear, death could not mar it. When the world is not enough to withhold it and the eyes are not enough to know it, and the hands not enough to claw at it and at least partially mangle the surface of it. When all of the forms of human thinking and reasoning and feeling are powerless against that which threatens to bring the darkest night of all. When foolish hope and vain trust and sudden joy cannot get near enough the thing to mean anything at all - and only the darkness deems what the thing is allowed to be...
Then what more can be done but to await the storm to fall, the eye and the calm of the thing to pass, and to hope that you survive the night?
-RK
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