It is very lonesome and quiet and windy here.
Raindrops make their way to the bosom of a parched earth,
as the clouds part with them.
There’s a melancholic song within me,
a song not written, nor sung, nor even composed,
but nevertheless there.
It seems it has always been a part of me, this song.
Perhaps it is a friend,
a constant companion,
a measure of my being.
Perhaps it is the same song that sometimes also sounds peppy,
full of life, and becomes a part of me when I soak in it.
The melancholy and the madness is only mine.
The song itself is neither.
It merely brings to life,
the constant flux
of sounds, images, and emotions
that make — or break — me.
Sometimes when the song is too heavy,
with overtones of melancholy,
I go for a long walk,
or a joyride-on-wheels,
and I look for something to quieten the sound of it.
Often, the sea comes to my rescue,
for the sound of the sea
— that of the waves crashing on the shore,
and the wind ruffling through my hair,
or whistling into my ear —
drowns out the noise, within and without.
The song is a tricky one —
it has no words,
none that I can understand.
Filled with the sounds of silence,
sometimes it seems very empty,
and bereft of all meaning,
if ever there was any.
The song is usually lost,
in the humdrum of everyday,
for I hear it not when there’s so much else to say.
I talk every now and then,
like a man who knows his words,
and uses them generously, even if carelessly.
Every once in a while, though,
I go quiet,
and very much so.
For it is in this quietude,
the antithesis of the verbiage I so generously spew,
that I hear that song again.