There is a silence within me. A silence so profound and deafening that it can crush mountains. Sometimes, its silver hands slowly wrap themselves around my neck, caressing my lips, and suddenly I can barely breathe. She enthrals me with the promise of power. Without words, no one can know me, no one can own me. The temptation is seductive, the ultimate freedom. Locked away in my ivory tower in this voluntary sojourn, I am unreachable. No wind can rattle me, no stone can break me. As an outcast, I have cast myself out. The silence takes over and weaves a cocoon of solace around my tired frame. In this cold, loving embrace I am safe.
Suddenly, a whisper. Then a call. A Scream.The walls of my tower are so high that I can barely hear it. If they were battering down the doors and sending troups to scale the walls, I would not know. The silence does not permit me to investigate. She is my mistress, my reason, my imprisoner, my enemy and my best friend. As long as she is mine, I am safe. Those calls mean nothing. They are distant and can never reach me.
The people are coming. The armies are bearing down upon my tower. Wave after wave of soldiers lay siege to my walls. Slowly the bricks and mortar weaken. They cannot reach me, I am too high, but one by one, they find the cracks in my beloved fortress. Their grappling hooks leave scars on my skin as they scrape away my flesh. Faintly, I hear their battle cries through my drugged up haze. Silence is my opium, my confessor and my sin.
The faint whispers rouse me from myself. My vision is foggy, my hearing muffled. I try to speak but the silence has gagged me with silken binding. Her embrace, once protective and loving, now chokes me. She is my black widow, my siren, my Medusa. I am enthralled and paralysed by her stare, her voice, her beautiful temptation. I cannot escape. The people are coming. They have broken down the door. Soon they will find me. There are a thousand doors to enter, each one smoke and mirrors. We have laid a thousand traps, each one a version of my soul, each an exquisite lie. Eventually, one will find me. There is no way out. I cannot run.
I want to scream for help but my silence forbids it. I cannot write, I cannot speak. My soul is in my words. Without them I am nothing. The silence has left me bereft. Can I write in my blood? It will be my ink, my saviour, my commodity to barter against this pitiless inquisitor. If I give you my blood, will you set me free? The silence intones its deafening chant as I pour myself onto the cold stone. I watch myself run down the cracks, in to the crevices. If I give you my lifeforce, will you untie me? Throw my lifeless body from the window, I don’t care. You are not my freedom and you are not my protector. I must have my words. I must feel alive. You can have my blood, my body, my breathe, those things mean nothing to me. Let my soul be free. I must be free.
