I count the clock like divine prayers, signals and wishes sent to a god on call waiting.
Silence is the language of those who are desperate to fill it, begging and pleading and gnashing of teeth toward the deaf skies.
Dead space creates a cacophony of noise, or perhaps it merely heightens what was always there, always brimming and bubbling just underneath our fault lines.
What happens when our divisions finally split, when they finally give up the illusion that we can compartmentalize and separate our deepest truths from our most fragile images?
I fracture and break myself open along the San Andreas, my waiting affixed to insecurity and detachment and desperate longing. I am never settled in this perpetual state, this shifting between who I thought I was, who they and you perceive me to be, and who was always there.
It's the subtle, yet stark, difference between the sun and moon, the fire dancing beneath the rock before it consumes it altogether. God, if you could see my world burned as though it had just begun.
If you only you had been there when it coursed through the darkness, that void in which universes were born and scattered and strewn beyond your sight.
If only you could be there when it starts again, the Earth turning toward all I'll ever be or all I've ever feared. Is there clear distinction between the two?
When all of the projections and expectations give way to the flame within, I, too, shall be consumed.
I am the witch bound and tied, the stakes screaming her heresies just loud enough to be heard over the hungry mob.
I stand accused by gods and those who speak for them, their voices always and conveniently in agreement with one another. They condemn me as I was warned that they would, should I ever choose this path.
They chant and I cry, both responses offering answers that they never intended.
Because when time is up and the ashes linger, we will see that we were always on the other line, divinity contained within the question on our lips.
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