But No Sound

Silence roars in my deafened ears. Grass bows before my grey struck eyes. My sheep nuzzle for my attention, for I cannot hear them. Oft’ times the greyness of my eyes strikes me blind, then I cannot see them. Many nights their touch is all I have; my sheep and my memories.

Neon signs flash all along the crowded boulevard. Hocking their wares, they scream at me, playing tricks with tiny explosions of light, hypnotizing with their message ... but no sound.

People shuffle and bump me, laughing raucously in their own private world of joy, but I do not laugh. They appear ashen and misshapen; hideous monsters, growling through yellow stained teeth. I look again and they are not monsters, what happened later was really no fault of theirs; they are just happy, stupid sheep.

Still no joy fills me at the thought of them, for there is no sound.

Bristle-faced men, dressed in oddly garish clothes, grin at me, mouthing words I cannot hear. They point to half-dressed women, and want me to pay money that I do not have, for services that I do not want.

I pull away and move on.

Humanity’s decadence has gone full around. Sodom and Gomorra was punishment for such as this. These people are a product of their environment, just a slight smattering of what the world has become. Like the people of that long lost city though, so shall these become pillars of salt. They have become naught more than piles of ash, as did all else.

You may ask why I too did not become as they. I could say that it is because I would not partake in their ritualistic behavior, but this is not why. I could say that it was because I was chosen for some higher purpose than those others, but neither is that the reason. I am still alive because I have ever been an outcast. Alone and aloof among my brethren. More from my own want and need though, than theirs. I could never pretend to be like them. I could never bring myself to act like them.

A basement is where I have always lived: solitary and alone. Quietly I read, because for me there is no sound.

In the world above, the people always appeared angry and hurtful. Even those that stood on the corners singing hymns unto the Lord would stop in mid-phrase to hurl a rock at a singular lady of the night as she would stroll past, to or from her commission for the evening.

How can that be right?

Judgment is not my prerogative, nor theirs. Their songs of praise meant nothing, because they did not listen to their own words.

To understand intent is to really listen. That is how I have always survived, though there is no sound.

Back then, my sight was keen, no cloud was etched upon my eyes, no greyness fogged reality. I saw what really was, though I had no idea what was to be. I observed life like an outsider looking in. I was different. I was special. Never a part of what they were, but always able to see the sounds of my silent ears.

My last clear sight was that of the cloud blooming on the horizon, blowing before it a horrific death-wind. The impact killed, maimed, and flattened all in its path, as I watched from my basement window. I cringed and hid in fear for what seemed all of eternity.

At last I realized that, even though I had chosen it, I had never really been alone.

I went above finally, with an ache in my heart. This time because there would never be sound again.

I stand here with a blue sky above me, green grass below me. God has claimed the earth once more. But all I see is the peeling bridge, spanning the bay, with the cloud forever behind it in my mind. All this I have ... but no sound.