A doubtful silence

Image by Henryk Niestrój from Pixabay 

There is a doubtful silence

On many days,

That I clinge on to

During my solitude time.

Rehearsing on strange fiction

With someone from the future,

In ways my brain and heart wanted,

A cassette plays on a tape recorder

Somewhere inside my head,

Asking questions about my sanity

And if what I do is a "normal" thing.

On some days, the strange fiction is exceedingly obsessive,

That it shuts the noises of the reality.

On those days, I am either over the moon,

Or sitting at a corner sobbing

In a dungeon with darkness,

On other days, I am searching

For something abstract,

That I lost in the past

In my strange fiction

Hoping I get back and it was never lost.

But I have practiced

To hide them brilliantly,

And pretend to have a thought like wearing horse blinders.

I shout at them

That it is all fine,

And it is okay.

All is good

And going to be good,

It doesn't stop the tape recorder from playing,

But I manage to mute them for sometime,

And they know to automatically unmute by default.

Now, I doubt if it is the doubtful silence,

Or that a voice from inside

That is muted by default?

.

PC: @nothingbutfilms .

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