It is an intense, pulsing place to be inside the four walls of this head.
Deaf and numb from the whine of unwinding silence. The absence of words for experience.
Headful of cicadas, lumbering night shadows, the pitch of buzz and throb and whine. Crouched at the edges still with invisible life.
It is hard, in this head, to decipher words, other sounds that make sense, to make sense, of this unraveled swoon where it leads.
I can close my blind eyes, my hand dips and vanishes into this apparent dark and I follow.
Trusting sound, not words, trusting silence. Threading through the 0 of zero, swallowed by something that knows what I mean before I do.
Slipping into the silk moth-ink that does not write, that glimmers dark on dark, past revelation past knowing stopping in the eye of nothing. No thing.
I am that.
Art work | Yazan at Deviant Art