The Sweet Bliss of Silence
The sweet bliss of silence.
As loud as white noise.
A crowd of imaginative beings bless me with their presence.
When I need company, they never fail to show.
When everyone else fled the scene.
They never chose to go.
I prefer emptiness because I've grown accustomed.
The same way that the darkness never ponders of the light.
The world never interjects on my realities.
I'm like a living ghost.
Transparent to most.
If not all.
I see the world as a vast land of clouded minded beings.
Moments when I reached for the stars,
fell short,
and was looking for clouds to caress my body
and soften my fall.
Even though I'm present.
As if my potential light masked behind casted shadows
actually illuminated my pitch black realities.
The world is blinded, incapable of seeing.
The cloudiness never seems to fade,
so not much of a spotlight comes my way.
Barely just a face in the crowd.
Often I laugh to myself just trying not to succumb to the feeling that I am truly alone.
Usually falling into a conversation with the walls I'm confined to.
Or myself, the only one comfortable.
With my story.
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