Monday, January 2, 2017

SILENCE- A PROSE PIECE

    Wordless. The wellspring of words within me, well meant, welling up, are lost in a welter of emotions whose force is light and sound. The light of inner being, lit up by the lightening of my eyes and the lighter vein of my upturned smile. Light as a flash, an energy, an iridescent spark , momentous but searing, imprinted in a space underneath my integument where while the sound that is unarticulated is bubbling, brimming , overflowing with wordiness whose worthiness is imperilled by my adherence to a worldliness which inveigles a wordlessness whose silence, undulating with light and sound as light and sound , blends with the vibrating currents your words have evoked , provoking this fusillade which cannot be contained in the words I can utter , nor wrapped up, enfolded in the blanket of metaphors whose buoyant gaiety will outpace the gait of my inexpressible emotion which, by remaining unexpressed, or misconstrued as inexpressive , will founder, coil back on itself and burst forth, uncontainable as it is, through my contained gay( iety).

    In the interstice between what you uneventfully unpacked in me and what I can't pack into a tidy parcel of packaged narrative, studded with jam packed intimations of the incommunicable, a silence prevails, expectant, anticipatory, itself its own language. The language this silence utters is not only wordless but unworldly . It is life , in all its prodigality, whooshed in, sloshing itself inchoately in this momentous vacuum of the unsaid and the unsayable, that which is not meant to be said or meant in a way that cannot be said .

    Language games, you and me. We pass words back and forth, enacting our scrabble of lexicographic mnemonics , endeavouring to plunder the lexicon of unfathomed meanings . Meanwhile there is this silence, to be papered over, or circumscribed in a pulpy paperback of mushy significations , worn thin, attenuated like the abrasion of sandpaper. No matter whatever palimpsest of associations I keep entombed , no matter what overdeterminations you imbue my inarticulacy with we have light and sound, which are their own language, their own silence. To be made, made up, made into whatever it is remade as . Let this silence protract , let this uninhabited , uninhibited sliver of time become the language you and I speak unspeaking, speechlessly . Let it be.

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