i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

and i've come to love the space within its boundaries.

in the overwhelming bustle of a day,

there are miraculous pockets,

full of significance, because they are full of a lack of.

does that sound strange?

a lack of is often a bad thing, isn't it.

i lack this.

i lack that.

but i'm counting my blessings in the lack of.

i lack anger.

i lack hunger.

i lack poverty.

i lack inconvenience.

i lack overwhelming stress.

i lack confusion in identity.

that sounds pretty good doesn't it.

perhaps this is just a chip of capitalism hiding away on our tongue,

that causes only good things to form themselves around i need more.

i need more patience.

i need more love.

i need more joy.

i need more time.

i need more sleep.

those apply to me also,

but the sudden shift in colors with which my life is painted is undeniable.

these days i have a lot of silence,

which is also known to many, as the lack of noise.

i eat most of my meals in the quiet of my own company,

i wake up and go to sleep in the rhythm of my heartbeat.

i step the pavements in the silence of a personal space that expands and contracts with each breath.

there are days where i watch time passing with a helplessness that waxes and wanes,

in some attempted pretension of a philosophical despair.

i snap out though, as my better self sits and laughs at my pathetic attempts to fit into the tortured-soul-conditions of the literary scene.

then i get up, to have some cereal in a cup, to do my laundry, to muse to my photographs, or hum a song in my head.

and the silence readjusts itself,

and cleaves to my thoughts, my words, my actions,

like an invisibility cloak that pads my vulnerability,

shields the things i am dying to reveal, yet have not found the person to reveal them to.

and the silence waits,

for fingers that will see its threads, and will pull gently to unravel it,

and wind it around another set of fingers,

that were meant to fit into curves of mine.

the cloak will disappear,

but the silence remains,

to be remade into something,

something for

two.