Sometimes when I close my eyes I find myself straining to hear something - a quiet something - so unrecognizable and so undefinable. I wonder if it even exists or if I am just trying to make cogent sense out of a subconscious feeling and so I give it a rhythm. A song that comes up out of the crust of the cold desert inside my body.
I write poetry about the sound.
I hear it in the skulls of long-dead horses and in the chambers and hallways between dark buildings.
I hear it at night between the sheets. And somewhere outside the window too, rustling underneath the moon.
I hear it inbetween my thighs when I take a bath in candlelight, glittering on my skin, turning ceramic into a lunar plane.
I called it the hum of everything in existence, and if you closed your eyes and aligned your body in just the right way you could hear its rhythm. I hear it the most in the quiet, when I'm able to breathe and the stillness comes over me. It becomes drowned out when I listen to loud music, when I'm angry and upset, when I'm in the midst of huge crowds.
There's something ticking at the epicenter of me, and in the center of everything.
Each moment that flows into another is a new bar. And every fact of existence becomes a new instrument. Intermingling into the sound. Its pace is neither slow or fast. It just always is - unrelenting.
Do you know that sound?
Do you feel it when you hold your breath and your heartbeat ties itself to the earth?
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