As the mainstream flows, and the world revolves around it, there are those whose voices never make it out the abyss.
Our stories may remain mute forever. Until our corpses are washed ashore centuries later. Nameless.
Suffering in the soil, laughter in rocks, skin now dust.
As the River of Importance of those who have forced their self-importance into the world flows into the ocean of history, we never make history.
Our stories may remain silent forever. I screamed as my last breath evaded my lungs. I screamed as I cried for the help that never comes. I screamed in survival mode. Have I ever lived?
We are alone in our suffering. But all bound to each other. Humanity. We believe ourselves alone. Be it in the physical or all planes above and below. But the very thing that brought me, a writer, to paper in tears over the untold stories of our invisible, ailing selves proves we are never truly alone. Solace.
Solace could be the help that never comes.
With these words I exercise compassion. Love. Prayers even. To you who needs warmth. An ear for your story to land safely from pianissimo to fortissimo, in whichever pitch and rythm. Solace. Because even if it feels too late, occurence is all that matters after all sometimes.
As long as I am here to emit this awareness in thoughts, spoken verbs and carved letters, our mute stories will never remain untold.
Find solace.
Ⓒ MFA. 2022
