Return
Time has seemingly just passed. It did not give advance notice, late apologies, or even a half-hearted hand wave. So, a year and a half has slipped by, and I wonder why I let it happen; why I did not make a record of me, of it, of all those people and events around me. I can feel my fingertips clumsily caress the keyboard, having to retype again and again, trying to unravel the confusion of long silence. Thoughts are not things, right now, but rather elusive shadows which I struggle to individualise. Maybe, if I were an ornithologist I would be more successful at it, with the added expertise of identifying one single song among the cacophony of a jungle canopy. Be that as it may, shortcomings or apprehension aside, I sit at my computer and chose to climb back to the peak of my mountain, ready to yodel away. Silence, like time, is a curious estate to be in. Some people merely feel awkward when facing silence; some others feel lost in the border-less expanse of nothing opened up by s...