Silence is blaring as I listen to the nothingness that is now our conversation. It's empty like South American calabash; meaningless like the distant mumblings of R.E.M. sleep. While you silently assassinate my optimism regarding our connectedness, I'm struggling to preserve its life. I suggest open communication to quicken our slowing pulse. I conjure up memories of selfless gestures and new anticipation in an effort to resuscitate dying enthusiasm... what can I do to revive us again?I remember what loneliness feels like; I journey there by way of your unspoken detachment and your waning interest. I remain there until you purposely escort me out. But while I visit, there's a voice in the midst that tries to convince me of negativity. It relays signals of pride wounded by doubt. It seduces my insecurities by sketching images of faceless women flaunting the secrets I have yet to learn. This villain claims to be the voice of reason until sounds of idealism shouts it out.
Beneath the surface there's sincerity at my core. There lives a multitude of verified emotions. You know not of its beauty because you don't believe that such a place exists within me. You won't even attempt to follow me there to confirm its truth. So how then can someone describe heaven to a person who does not believe in God? How do you convey the essence of sight to someone who's blind? And even if you could get impossibly close, how can they partake of beauty when they won't open their eyes?
Please open yours.
Copyright © 2009 by DeAna McEwen
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