Notes

There are certain sounds that sparks thoughts, thoughts that cause speculation of death and happier times, thoughts that come to us as naturally as a breath, but what we breathe is a falsification and a lie. What we breathe is silence, the inexplicable pounding of black in a screaming room, and it disguises itself to masquerade as the tapping of rain in the window of a childhood home, so that's all we believe, because are in need of a consolation. The material we compehend is nothing real, nothing that provides life or comfort, but we demand it to do so, because sounds are extroverted miracles that rescue humans from themselves, from their own papery thoughts, and perhaps the world will recognize the irony eventually. And I never heard something quite as shattering as the gunfire on a battlefield, because it is born from the desire to murder to prevent more murder, and we weave that contradiction obliviously. We are falling out of line for an expectation of change, and we are fighting monsters that we cannot see. With that idea, I can't help but wonder if it would be more accurate to say that this is a war against ourselves. These matters make me wish for suffocation, for this image of joy is so skewed that it is meaningless to the blatantly introspective. If I die, I want my passing to be narrated by the whisper of a tragedy that was never actually a soundat all. If I die young, that is. We're all destined for the grave, especially now. For during this time, the things that we see aqre black and white - sometimes, that is quite literal - and we are convinced that a reformation is among us, but we refuse to the prospect physically by not putting down our weapons. When we are at a loss, when unbuttoned uniforms pinned on the deceased are scattered around, when the blood of our victims paints the meadow that used to represent peace, we continue to hold blades to our comrades' noses to check for breaths of what we come to understand as nothing significant. And just like that, we are dancing with death again. The knife could slip, could cut, could kill, but it doesn't, even through trembling hands, and we sometimes applaud ourselves for remaining steady admist the chaos, but we know deep down that it wouldn't matter if we did falter, because a massacre such as this does not pick the prettiest flowers in the garden - no, it steals with the sweep of the wind those who could hold the blade still, those who were neither brave or cowardly, but we observe no distinction once we brush past sentimentality, a chemical that poisons and warps even the greatest minds. We have nothing but hypocrisy on the terrain, but we do not act on it, and perhaps we could've done something about it before it was too late, though we are already lost with the sounds that we used to know, and we position the knives once more, only to find that our mistake has become a tragedy that we cannot resolve. Then, we understand silence.