Not Every Voice Was Made to Speak
Artist
Lyn Lapid
Composition
the simlish song
Audio-Visual Immersion
The screen goes dark, leaving a faint rectangular afterimage against the retinas. It is a peculiar kind of quiet that fills the dimly lit room when the line clicks shut—not an absence of sound, but a sudden influx of the streetlamp’s orange glare stretching across the floorboards. To dial a number knowing there is nothing to offer, nothing but the intake of breath and the static of distance, is to build a temporary bridge out of paper.
The thumb hovers, presses, and the connection drops. The phone sits heavy in the palm, a cold piece of metal that somehow anchors the drifting hours. Outside, a lone car tire hisses against damp asphalt, carrying someone else away to an unknown destination, while here, the air remains thick with things left unsaid.
There is a distinct rhythm to harboring a sickness one refuses to cure. A dull ache settles just beneath the ribs, a heaviness in the lungs that makes drawing breath a deliberate, conscious task. It would be entirely simple to close the window, to shut out the night draft, to swallow something bitter and move toward recovery. Yet, to be well is to be empty of this particular weight. The ache becomes a familiar companion.
Stepping onto the cold bathroom tiles, tracing the line of grout with a bare toe, the mind circles the same worn track of warnings ignored. The signs were always there, glaring and stark, yet one willingly steps back into the quarry, preferring the sharp, unyielding edges of the stones to the smooth, featureless plains of moving on.
Morning will inevitably arrive with its usual, indifferent demands. The tea will steep far too long, turning dark and astringent, while a neighbor’s keys jingle carelessly in the hallway. One pours the tea, watching the dark liquid fill the porcelain rim, knowing the vessel is entirely the wrong shape to hold what is spilling out.
Leaving the Porch Light On
The sky begins to thin into a bruised gray, and the hallway radiator hums out its first timid clatter of the day. You don't pick up the phone again; instead, you watch the dust motes drift lazily through the expanding wedge of sunlight on the rug.
Someone on the street below shouts a greeting, a bicycle bell rings twice, and life carelessly demands participation. The lingering chill remains lodged in the back of the throat, but you finally set down the empty mug, tie your shoes with slow, deliberate loops, and step out the front door, leaving the silent room behind to collect the morning heat.
Melodies for the Long Walk Home
Skullcrusher
"Wasted"
The sensation of discarded hours tangling around your ankles while watching yourself unravel with a peaceful face.
Tomberlin
"Red Bird Pt. 2 (Morning)"
The clinical chill of a draft through a cracked window, staring at a wound that refuses to knit shut.
Florist
"Swimming"
Surrendering to the buoyancy of grief, drifting slowly away from a shore that no longer recognizes you.
Maple Glider
"Swimming"
The tactile grain of a blurred film reel, capturing a name that has become a stubborn, permanent stain.
Comments
Post a Comment