The streets stay busy. The hum of people moving about.
It seems repetitive. It seems aimless.
Another poor soul destined to repeat, until bones become too brittle to handle the world bearing down.
Then you quietly wait out your remaining days, existing only as evidence of an era far gone but not foreign.
Fill the void with noise. Forget that you are from the earth and once again destined to rejoin her.
So I sit, with wine to lips, ignoring the boisterous conversation.
Not so long ago, I was someone else. I wonder if I'd recognize myself.
The one that I left, to become the next, remains intact within the confines of my heart? Spirit? Mind?
Where they dwell serves as little importance, only that they remain.
The Idealist. The realist. The heartless. The lover. The warrior.
None of which have I become, but all of which endure.
It isn't until I find myself in a quiet space that I am drowning out the shouts.
Regret, ambition, pain, hope vie for my attention.
They scream, begging for a taste of consideration.
"This is who you are," they say. Stepping on the foot of the others who attempt to contradict.
So from time to time, I choose the static. Hoping to forget.
Listen in a quiet space and you will hear the truth in lies.
Find yourself in who you are not. For therein rests as much truth as who you are.
In a quiet space, the sound will not subside.