The Empty Forest...

If a heart breaks in an empty forest with no one to feel it, does it create a feeling—or just a void where they convince you that what is unseen cannot be felt?

November 1, 2019

The source of uncertainty carries within itself possibilities that long to be realized. They run everywhere like ill-mannered children, calling out for attention, telling her: "Look at me and be ashamed; you gave birth to me, so bear the disgrace of what I am." You struggle whether to restrain the rage inside you or to beat the child you failed to raise properly. Beating yourself would teach it that it will always manage to slip away; beating the child will teach it that there will always be a situation where it can hate you. And you never know what, or exactly when, you ought not to do. But you don't know—it is a revolt, a revolt of your very self that wants to scream I love you through the hatred it whistles at you.

​Eh, so much reading between the lines always ends up as reading without lines, without order; and when there are no lines, there is no "between" either, and right then... Why don't you understand? I cannot draw the color of the air for you to hear me, to understand... that when I speak in the third person, it isn't because it sounds more beautiful that way, but because I am ashamed for you to hear how I address myself! Self-respect shoots me with a glare while I pretend something has caught in my eye, every time the left eye cowardly sheds a tear before the right one, just so its tear can run faster.

​In the battle with oneself, a fourth party always wins—an absolute stranger who, at that moment, did not exist even in their own thoughts as anyone important, because they fell in an empty forest where no sound is heard! Because there was no one to hear that fall; they are alone! Well, someone like that will gather all your tears and string them onto the silver of your weaknesses; they will care for them, pamper them, and speak the most beautiful words invented just for them, until... until one day they begin to scatter them all over you, shouting in a rage: "Here is everything you cried over, I carefully collected them and kept them just for you until the moment the empty forest was filled with a crowd of suspicious people, ready to make sure that in an empty forest, nothing is truly heard, because it is empty."

​What a pity—every void is very often filled by an even greater void, no matter how impossible that might be!

Since I've been a waitress my whole life, I feel like I must have a tip jar even here .