Silent Night

Silent night. The dread of his heart. As the clock ticks by, it get's quieter than ever. And every moment his fear expands within. Pin drop silence. Just the monotonous ticking of the second's hand. He can even hear his breath. In and out. At least in the summer the rhythmic noise of the jammed ceiling fan created a sufficient diversion. But it's so cold now. Probably the winters. Has the Christmas gone yet? Don't remember. All day long his mind would be busy talking incessantly with everyone around. Chatting. Gabbing. Joking. Laughing. Smiling. Sulking. Et al… But now, everyone is asleep. And it's so silent. If only he could turn deaf. It's like those lunatics who constantly hear the sound of a wailing child, so they dwell amidst mindless rock music. But in his case, he never heard anything. And that was the case of irony. He heard nothing at all. Silence. As if the time stops. The seconds hand doesn't tick anymore. Silence. Sad and disturbing as if death is lurking around here somewhere. Only it's too scared to embrace him. He's all alone and doesn't know what to do in these stagnant moments of introspection. He avoids the mirrors throughout the day but now he can see himself staring back at him. Funny, there's no expression. Just a blank, dead stare. And there's a hole in his chest. A void. A choking emptiness. And it burns larger and larger everytime he inhales. Like a smoke he used to puff everytime. And the smoke circulates inside like a mist between illusion and reality. And the lusty way it turns and twirls while rest glows and burns into ashes. All these years he has desperately tried to find out what once filled that hollow. But it was like groping in the dark for an unknown entity. Sometimes he would be enlightened. Other times too frustrated. As nothing just seemed to fit in that empty circle. The road to his answers was locked. Although he has the keys, he dare not open it for the wrath of the God would befall upon him. So he just sits back everytime in his little cage of barbed wires. Time and again the barbs would tear into his flesh but he doesn't cry anymore. It's a substitute for all the pleasures he had once abandoned to seek something so much greater, only to realize that it's too magnanimous for his meager comprehension. So he just sits back. It bleeds. It dries. And it heals. He sits back and sits in a state of awe. Observing the escapade of life slithering onto him like a serpent. The moment he discovers the oddity of it, the serpent's grip tightens over the faint lines beneath the pale thin skin on his wrist. But what the hell! Let it rip. Let it end. But my hands are tied and I can't simply help that poor little kid who has been searching for his soul all along. And he is still a kid with those innocent eyes wondering why does he feel so empty all the time. So like the fear of the boogeyman, he fears these paused moments where life halts. And she returns everytime. Who is she? Is it his mother who he never saw after she kissed him before he sank into a last peaceful slumber? Is it the girl he fell in love with who he shivers to even remember? Who is she all dressed inwhite, pacing towards him? She unlocks the door and opens her mouth to say. But I know the words she would utter. "Time for your pills."