oh so quiet

I don't know other people that are terrified of silence as I am. I am so afraid of the lack of noise, of movement, of life. When it's quiet, I smell death. I hate when silence means there's nothing left to talk about, there's nothing left to share, nothing to be played as music to my ears. Those times I sing, I yell from the bottom of my screaming heart, of my hungry heart feeding itself from beautiful sounds, from the rhythm of your voice, of your moves and breathes. And when I sing to cover the silence, it's almost like having surgery, like cutting deep down inside of me and taking the rotten parts out. It's exhilarating, but it leaves an empty space. To be filled.

Now I have a couple of holes that sing songs of sorrow, I let them hum. And they keep humming deep hard tones that bleed inside. But my internal hemorrhage is drowning my own voice. And I am no backing vocals to settle for whoop whoop and pa ra ra ras that you can barely hear. I am the lead singer, I know it. And so I yell back and the holes keep bleeding.

And it's still oh so quiet. Maybe I should try and have a break of silence. I may die a little, but I will come back with a stronger voice. The one that deserves at least an entire album. And I will patch the holes with sweet whispers and sweet people. When I am ready, I'll even remix some of the sorrow holes. And then the real producer will step up and will hear my true voice. But, you, can you actually hear me?