Well, there’s no such thing as true silence. There will be, one day. No- by then there wouldn’t be days anymore. He said there would still be days, just no one left to count them. Is anyone really bothered with the difference?
The problem here is a conflict of perspective. Everything is. That’s what I believe, anyway. He doesn’t. Either you believe in your own brain, and you are aware that everything begins and ends with one’s own consciousness. The world is here for you. What terrifies me is that there’s nothing more to it.
I am feeling the effects running for too long. I have been for a while.
My feet are tired, obviously. They used to manage longer distances. I’ve already got the bones of an old man, or a dying one. My legs aren’t as good at holding me up, as though I’m always about to fall. There’s something cold in the pit of my stomach. It’s just sitting there, and it doesn’t want me to eat anything. It pushes at my diaphragm. There’s a wire loosely wrapped around my lungs. It takes just a slip for it to seize up. And I can feel how it glows orange, yellow, white, and when it relaxes, it’s left its mark.
My hands show how much of me has wasted away. In darkness, I think I can see the damned spots pool under the skin. In the light, I’ve clawed at them enough to draw blood. There’s a weight on my shoulder, something knotted up at the back of my neck. My mouth doesn’t want to open. I don’t know how much my eyes give away. Everything or nothing, but I don’t know what scares me more.
I didn’t think I was capable of change. But, of course, that’s the only way to measure time, isn’t it?