Waiting for Silence.

I am waiting for the silence to come. It does not arrive.

I sit in the disquiet hustle of the soundless room.

I am driven. It’s the incessant sound of the crowd.

The crowd that does not include me.

I am without it.
I am away from it.
I am not a part.
I am apart.

I am not in-tuned with their cryptic self-serving cross.

I feel like I am on the outside looking in.
Pulled unwillingly to the activity within.
Not wishing to be involved.

Critically nonchalant.

One more day not knowing what to say.
One more day not knowing what to do.
One more day not knowing what to think.

One more day forgetting how to breathe.
One more day not able to breathe.

I see the action from within – a surrealist’s symphony of commotion.

But I am not apart of it.

And I never will be.