The shapes and shadows form the usual faces on the walls. They're always the same. They never judge, they simply regard in silence.
The faces seem somehow different tonight, however. They are cold and unwelcoming. But don't get me wrong, they never judge, they simply regard in silence.
Mad men hear voices. I only hear my own. It offers no comfort. It only offers judgement and tormented yells.
Sometimes I wish the faces would answer me. They're ever so silent.
I am my own worst enemy yet I am also my most welcomed company. Misery loves it, or so I've heard. I've heard plenty. I've heard way too much, yet I can never hear enough.
My inner ear must be going deaf while my inner child lives on forever screaming for attention.
I wish he would just shut the fuck up.
Maybe then the faces might offer some consolation? I don't assume they enjoy the ramblings of an attention whore child.
Children hate being regarded in silence.
I'm sure there are a few children who enjoy silence. Indeed, they perpetuate it.
At first we call them well-behaved. Angels, even. Then we start to worry because we all know there are no such things as angels and demons. Not in an ethereal state, anyway.
It's like we can never really decide what we want. Do we want to worry about a silent child, or do we feel comfortable scolding a rowdy one?
I really do wish the faces made up their minds. They are becoming rather irksome, albeit silent.
Can silence be a solution? What about all that's left unsaid? Then again, what about all we wish we hadn't said?
What's the worse kind of regret? That of regretting an action of the lack of it?
Perhaps we should just be content with the faces. Maybe they too have regrets.
Do they regret their silence? Or do they regret the fact that their silent regard has been driving me mad since I was a child?
I hate the faces. I wish they were alive so I could wish death upon them.
