Take me to the gallows
Where my very guts slip off
Let my blood lead me away
For in this place life is pain
There is a place where nothing exists. It is desolate and encroached by its very nothingness. Its walls stink of silence. This place is not on any map, it is not deciphered by geographical expertise. Yet it is very popular. Many people see it as an involuntary tourist spot, a place where they have to be. So they flock in their numbers, heading towards the unknown . It would be all colorful but for one simple fact. Everyone that visits is soon entrenched in this silence. This is just a monologue. My simple view of this very complex spot, I have been there before. I felt the silence; it killed the very sound of my heart beat, and muffled up my words. This place is a feeling, a surge, a large vacuum. It is called depression.
The disjointed neck, eyes popping from its sockets and dangling legs might be tagged a suicide. But this man visited the place, and was consumed by the silence. So he is swinging from the chandelier, while his widow and children cry their eyes out. The sorrow is stringed with questions, a life that shared an affinity with wealth and satisfaction. A content and charming man could so easily turn his back on life and hang himself. They did not see him at the station, but he bought the ticket and visited the place, the silence.
It starts with the withdrawal; it is very gradual, very gentle. You feel a sense of desire for things you can’t tell. You laugh and tell a million jokes, you fool everyone . Your superficial is an excellent artist. The emptiness gets dense. Alcohol only sedates the beast for a while, but then it rears up, as fierce as ever. I forgot to mention that this place chooses who visits it, the station comes to you.
The freckled lady, on the leather chair, with piercing eyes and rather thin lips thinks she knows the way out. She is a shrink. She thinks words can liberate this strangled mind. You stare at her, wondering why she feels omniscient. But her words and listening ears do not do much. Death looks so charming and dignified to a depressed mind. To him, death is peace. Death is silent; its silence scares even the emptiness of this place.
If you are already on a train, headed towards the silence. Do not order drinks yet, don’t wait for the next stop. Just jump right out. Your ticket out is happiness. The pure type that comes from you. It is not streamlined to people and possessions, it is created within. Find it now; do not see that trip through.