When I listen
In a quiet room, my head is full of noise. I see a second version of myself, a third, a fourth, and the mirrored walls accommodate the rest of me. I see too much of myself, my dreams, my millions of years of existence that flash only in the fluttering moment when I awaken, and then every memory of the odyssey has vanished. I am lost. I am home again. Somewhere in the past it seems I knew the sound of epiphany. She was the most temperamental goddess I’ve heard sing.
In a quiet room, I am filled with music. Some notes are birds anticipating a season, while others bubble to the surface as the sounds of steam. I am an alchemist, attempting to change myself, but instead of silver or gold I have been altered to some denser metal, resembling stone. I am alone. I am the central figure of this space, hunched over a blank page, dying to create. In this quiet room, silence has a pitch. This is the sound of my hand as it writes.