In the air around here there's a whisper. Barely discernable. In fact, most people here have gotten so used to it that it doesn't even register to them anymore. But if any of them ever drifts anywhere else, goes to another county, or even wanders beyond their borders, the whispering stops. Without explanation. Of course, the majority of people don't even notice it has stopped. They just feeling the familiar overwhelming air of anxiousness and malaise, and can't feel comfortable again until they're back where 'they belong'. It manages to remain inconspicuous and, for the most part, draw no attention to itself. But, even for those of us that do notice it, it has been accepted and understood that the whisper in the air is unchanging and inanimate. And for the most part, it has been. You wander a certain distance, you feel uneasy, and you can only rectify it by returning. As straightforward as that. Lately, however, it's become so much more. Not only a physical attempt at distance, but also now even emotional and intellectual progression causes silence. If any of us makes the briefest indication that they might want to better themselves as a person- read a book, learn another language, write poetry- it washes over them. The silence comes, drowning out everything. Worse now, it makes you physically ill. Lasting longer than before, days at a time. There's no escape, except to stay within the confines of your street, and cite Cable TV, the newspaper, the all encompassing 'net', and neighbourhood gossip as your only salient sources of information. Once, I managed to speak to a visitor. A pale man, haggard but young. His eyes betrayed his body. His physical matter had been worn down to the bone, and his skin seems to cling to him for fear of falling off, wrinkled and grey, but spotlessly clean. But all this could not hide the truth of his eyes- he was a young man. I asked him of the whisper, but he told me he could not hear our whisper- but that back when he was home they could hear a whisper of their own. He had made it his aim to hear the whisper of a different folk, to compare as many whispers as possible, and to draw a conclusion of what they represented and what significance their silence held. He never told me the distance or length of time he had travelled, but as he rounded the corner onto the path to the bordering county, I felt the strongest compulsion to follow him. To ignore the silence, to allow myself to be worn away by the silence, just so I could understand. But I didn't. I wandered back to my home, but his memory wouldn't leave me. That's why I'm writing this. I'm not pretending to know what it is, but all I know is there can only ever be one way out. I just have to try to find it. I know I'll never understand it, or probably even notice once I've found it, but I know that I can't be at ease until then. Maybe I'll never find it. But I know I've made my efforts. I only hope that my search, if fruitless, will aid someone else years down the line. Remove even 4 steps from their journey. But I write these words in my room late at night, fearful of being found by those who think they hear nothing, and could never understand what I'm trying to do. This has to be found by the right person, or we're lost forever. Gradually as I've been writing this, documenting my thoughts, the whispering has started to get quieter.
Started to fade from existence.
As have I.
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