The snow is falling in sheets as I cut through the silence of this place with only the sound of my own voice. I let it out, first in small whisper and then in big booming cackles that bounce off the walls and singe my ears as they shoot back and smack me in the jaw. 

I am alone. 

I wanted to be. I wanted to be in the middle of nowhere where the air was quiet and not full of that dead hum that televisions give off. I wanted to be silent, I wanted to be silent perhaps because everything had always been so loud but loud was the way it was and I think loud is where I am supposed to be. 

I hear every sound I make here. 

I hear when I rustle the sheets, when I inhale with my mouth closed, when my hair moves, when my ears twitch. I hear my hands vibrating when they are still, I hear my brain squirming around in my skull. 

I had this idea that the snow would eventually swallow me up, that it would just keep coming down until all of the doors were rendered useless and all the windows were covered and I was enclosed in a sea of white and nobody could blame me then for disappearing, if they ever found me. 

The kettle whistles and I whistle back at it and we make up a little tune before I pull its red body off the burner and set it down on the counter. It’ll probably burn it, but I don’t mind. I get a teacup from the cupboard and slam it shut hard with all of my might and it falls off the hinges and crashes to the floor. 

Noise. More noise. 

I pour the hot water into my mug and watch the steam come up and move my fingers back and forth over the wisps that rise up. Smoke is beautiful, I always thought so. It’s why I like marble countertops like this, it’s like frozen smoke made into stone.

I keep the lights off here mostly, the sun comes in from all angles and I sit and bask in it but I don’t go outside. 

I rustle the pages of books and realize that there is nobody else here to distract me from what I am. And what I am is…..alone. 

Grasp

A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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