killing me softly … with quiet
The pathways in my head more congested than city roads. Screaming scars, unhealed hurt from the past — emotional roadblocks
A truck trundles past, its horn blaring a caution
The load on its back, heavy
bound with thick ropes, by sturdy hands
yet sways precariously
A smoky thought chokes me. I sigh
l o n g and
The tunnel is long, deep. The darkness tangible. The line of flickering 40 watt bulbs from a different century seem to emit no respite
Geithoorn could be from another century. A car-free village with no roads. Only waterways. And boats. They say it is quiet there.
Too quiet. They call their boats ‘whisper boats’
From somewhere in the distance floats, as if in a whisper, the strains of Killing Me Softly with His Song
Will a mental Geithoorn kill me softly with its quiet?