There is a string of words in me. It is curled up like a spool of yarn. It has slowly been unraveling since I first understood. The colours and sounds have shifted, changed as I have carried on, but always carefully avoiding silence. As I write this, I am tugging at that seemingly endless rope. I am not afraid to pull hard. Rather, I am afraid to stop pulling, because I feel that if not unraveled it will rot. One great big mess of things unsaid.
I wonder what’s at the end. I can hardly tell if there’s anything at all. I know it is then, but that end exists now so that does not mean much. I have confused place and time and wonder and Truth. How colourful the rope can be. It is glistening as if it knows it’s important, but it is nothing. Nothing, that is, but woven expectation and a need to understand. There might not only be me and the rope is just a way to avoid that fact. Perhaps it is a stepping stone to that fact. Perhaps I am at the end of the rope.
How odd it is to think of such things. I feel as if I am suspended by it. As if its knots pull at my hand to be set free and not the other way around. The rope whispers, “We need each other.” If I were to let go of these pretty sensical and nonsensical things (for our purposes, it’s all the same) then there would only be a vast silence through which to fall. The rope whispers, “There is no way to let go.” I do not know if the rope could be cut…. Thinking back, the rope extends beyond my vision. Thinking forward, the rope extends indefinitely. At least, as far as I am willing to see.
I try to imagine silence. I fear it. I cannot know what remains after I’ve fallen away. How can something seem so foreign and yet be all there is? I may be nothing more than a hole in that holy wall of silence through which these words drip. Tempting. But human beings were not made for silence.
Perhaps I ought to laugh to ease the pain. No, no, do not confuse pain and struggle. You see, laughter echoes off the lack of walls and I don’t know what the sounds mean by the time they bounce back. They come drifting down to me in ancient disjointed verses, like loose threads of a golden rope, making no sense away from their braiding. Nevertheless, I clutch to these, hanging by them. After all, a man cannot pull himself up by his own hair.
Note to reader: I wrote this as an automatic writing exercise many years ago. I have made a few changes to it and thought I’d share.