Press Play.
There is music on this night. This night of uncomfortable silence. A silence which has been present since those who see what we do not witnessed the event. Whatever that event may have been…
They saw it. Floating, ethereal above us, flitting nervously around. The spirits of all those gone before are seeing things that we do not. From that sight comes those unexplainable uncomfortable silences. The child in the middle of a war, the lovers who have lost their way, the old lady staring off miserably into the distance…
Spaces where spirits fill the air… grieving and sorrowful that they cannot help. Miserable themselves at the things they have seen that they cannot change… No more than in life can things be altered within the walls of death.
We should be more careful with our fragile lives. Who would say the ungrateful one takes advantage of the gift of life? The same who would ask later on why should they be grateful? To what? To whom?
Who is to say.
We are threads on the spindle of the universe… just tiny, fine, gauzy, wispy little threads on a very large spindle bulging with silk. Crawling with spiders.
If we live, who’s to say that we should even do anything great or exceptional at all? This strive for it all.
The spirits see and think not what they could do for personal gain with all they see. They look upon us and their gaze wanders to their favorite chair, or loved one. An old pet. Just as in life…
Those things they see though. The things you think you have kept hidden. That’s what brings those hollow places, the sadness of the ghosts hanging around, more miserable than you…
Into the wide blue yonder then! Who would hide heinous things from the open yet burn the eyes of an old lady?
Not us.
Not us.
Not us.