My Words of Agony

The whistful sound coming from the wind and the air it brings is undeniably mourning with me.

There was something always so calming about sound. From the wind howling into the mountains to the soft tumbling in the thickets of forests filled to the brim with noises little noises of chirping high above, along with the deep growls of the night, to the light rustling in the nearby shrubbery, there was something so lovable about them all, so quiet, something so minuscule you wouldn't even notice it most of the time, yet full of life.

Tell me, if there was no beautiful white noise, in what would you relax in? Truly, a world without sound, is just an blank board. Full of potential, but only halfway there.

Still, I think pure silence is better than a half finished symphony. At least the pain of knowing what's next doesn't come with an empty canvas.

I don't like hearing things sometimes.

The echoes of dying breaths, slow whispers of words slurred from the night, desperate cries for help, I hate them all, horrible and loud and sudden as anything will be, but most especially yearning, even if it may not seem so at first. Imagine quiet words of love left in the dust, upsettingly letting them live fruitless. Hopeless wondering on whether it works, like life and death yet half as important. A true wondering on feelings and life, even if they latter was already clear from the start.

Sure there are accidents and pain and mourning, and death, but a loss of one once loved from lost interest is horrible too. Pain was never easy, how much more if it was this immense? If not by fading away, it was by boredom. Feelings once your world, your everything, now left half-baked and empty.

I hate it. Hate the feelings of listening for words, only to be left in a deafening siliece. I wonder if you hear them.

My words of agony.

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