I intone a list of five syllables-- one name-- ad infinitum. The vowels drip from my mouth like saharan sand, in strained hisses and coughing sibilants.
I stare into a canyon labyrinth, trying to trace the path of my wheezing whispers. The consonants come vibrating back, reinforced from the reverberation of silence. I smell tanacetum vulgare laced in the reply. The response of war. The language of flowers.
"No".
Short and plain. The reply strikes me in the face. I turn my head, eyes closed, cheek bleeding.
I still wait for days at the mouth of the maze. I cling to the hope that the granite walls of the ravine will melt away. Sloughing apart from the elaborate construct of distraction to reveal a path still straight and true.
But the echoes fade. I am simply discussing pleasant fantasy with myself. Simplicity isn't strong enough to beat down the towering walls.
No, that's wrong.
It's not enough to fill the gaps of the chasm. There aren't enough phonetics to caulk and fill the cracks in the earth. The rifts I've hand-rent with carelessness.
The responses I hear are just throwaway replies. They are birthed of my own perseverance, from not so long ago.
11:04 a.m. - 2014-05-19
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