The cafe was quiet,
almost silent as the
sun swam across
the ocean, drowning
away as the night
flew across the sky.
Her voice was quiet as she
read what she had written,
"It is as if you're traveling
down a long, cold, empty,
road to nothing and then
there are those days, where
you hear every single body
around you talking about how
they spent their day dancing underneath
city lights or smoking underneath
a leafless tree...
and then you think back to what
you were doing, and all you can
recall is your head in a book as the
raindrops sink into the corners of
the room, floating you away to
another world."
She sighed and erased it, letting the
world's thoughts creep up behind
her and make her feel as if she is
good for absolutely nothing. But then
again, who in the world is worth
so much?
We are all part of a time in history
where nothing so valuable exists but
the stars. Just imagine, centuries from
now, maybe some aliens or developed
humans will look back and say, "Maybe
nothing existed this year."
All because we are too afraid to say
the truth, too afraid to speak up about the
horrid nightmares and the beautiful
murals we paint in our sleep.
This world is too quiet.
so quiet, that the words
only know how to scream.