I am a prayer, something akin to silence
Introduce the place first sir. Yes let's start from there. Every story needs a beginning, something to capture a wandering mind, something to steal attention. We must market our imagination, yes ma'am. So from the beginning; a place.
A place without voice. Imagine it. Feel it. Hear it. Yes hear it. Hear the silence that breathes there. It is a space, a box really. It is a room, to be true; a well endowed room with a view. You should see the view; all that green grass, all those manicured flowers, those old old trees. But the silence is here and everywhere.
In this room, a small shadow sits. It is a shadow, so you have little or nothing to go on about gender, race, ethnicity of sexual orientation. Sorry. This shadow is hunched over, gathered body in its ashy arms, trembling as if in some passion, fevered really. You cannot hear the gnashing of teeth, the sorrow that wanders within, or the plea to be set free. This shadow suffers in the silence.
Maybe you have met this shadow before. Maybe you have worn that flesh at one time or the other, alone, unknown, all facades washed off, naked before your god. You know what I mean. You know how it feels. You know what it tastes like. It is that place this shadow abides. It is not a physical space but it takes more from it than even the room with the window with a view and gods, what a view.
It is noon, so everything is bright and shiny. The sun is sluggish outside but it doesn't enter the room. Nothing enters the room. The shadow turns as a door opens. It has eyes. It sees. It has hope in them. Another door opens and another shadow steps into the room. What ! To take ones space without permission. What guts!
There's fear that exist on the map of a person's face and eyes. It is this fear that wanders into the shadow. It tries to rise but the new shadow drags it back down again. They both fall to the floor where no sun can reach and they are no more. The silence is not encroached by this scene.
The description of a place is done. We can wander within the debris of its creation and you, my dear stalker, can enjoy the view through the window. Now let us consider the action of the tale. Without action, this story will lack the vital spark needed to keep you entertained, to make you dream, to give you belief. What sort of action can a place without voice bring, a place of shadows too broken to speak?
There must be a clash of wills. maybe between the room and the view beyond the window lies eons of bitterness. The room and its shadows would love to be a part of the view while the view would love to penetrate into that darkness and silence. What this has bred is a hate so deep, it wanders the blood soaked sands of its nightmare alone.
In truth, the room is in a house that is a part of the view for those wandering down the wild green of the world and the colour of the room gives some variety to the colours that pervade the view. The only thing is one has to step out to see this qualities. One has to change perspective. Do you understand this thing I speak of?
Whatever violence that occurs, no matter how small or big it may be stems from the different perspectives the room and the view share. If they both saw themselves to be symbiotic and parasitic in their relationship, they would function better. The shadow drowning on the floor's darkness in the room, needs the view through the window to remind it of better promises the sun brings. The trees and silent birds in the sky need the room to remind them of grief and pain, trauma and fear. Is this not how this world revolves.
Understand that in this tale there's no god, no deu ex machina to manipulate the story to soothe the bothered emotions of my readers. With that in mind, we take a look at characterization. What is a story without a man or woman, an animal that speaks, a tree that shrieks, a pebble that floats? There must be people to people the pages with actions and inactions, with their small wars, their petty pains, their little deaths. I am terribly sorry to inform you that in this matter, there are no actors. For good or for ill, there are no characters. You cannot therefore vilify or adore anyone except me. Yes me.
I am the one who writes, who tells this tragic tale. It is from my brain, that these words form their endless strings of meaning. If there is a room with a window with a view, I created it. It is my room even if I have never lived in it. If a shadow lives in that room, consumed in the cold silence of grief, it is I. If two shadows clash in that room, then both shadows are me.
I am the beginning and the end, the creator and the creation, the person behind the veil, the finger that works the strings. The puppeteer, if o need to be explicit. So do not expect a character, expect me. This is if you have bothered to read this story to this point. In all things, it was my intent to bore you.
Understand me. Read it again and you will see that you have read the story of my life and maybe of yours too, or someone you used to know. I am a prayer, something akin to silence.
The end.