Whispers

2003-11-21
There is a passing moment when all of our memories breeze past my mind in the form of whispers in other rooms. I close my eyes hoping that it will make my ears receive the words all the clearer. Eyes are useless in such blurred instances anyway.

Sometimes they climb on the ceiling like footsteps in the room above. I hesitently restrain myself from reaching for the broom to knock the walls silent. Silence is golden as they may say and I want to center all my thoughts upon it's brilliance.