The following article was published in N-SPHERE November 2009 issue.


Silence never understood me. Or you for that matter. I remember one time I was walking down the street. You sneaked up on me from behind, hit me with foul stench of feathers ashed. “What in the name of…?” “Relax. Slice time, and make yourself a martini. You do not need an olive, because that’s overrated.” And you remained there, quiet as the night. Or was it dawn. I don’t know anymore. I can’t see behind this glass hall of shame I’m desperately trying to keep you out of.

You distinctively recall the possibility of not scaring me like that, because we talked about it. And you seemed fine with the idea. Of course, playing all day with whispers and regrets can make you sometimes forget things.

“I had a shard of pitch in my back pocket I used to draw shapes and shadows on your limbs. Nothing better than some arterial red to go with that tie of yours. I liked how the “new black/white” looks on you. You liked it too. But you nervertheless stole it. I got used to you screwing up and me rebalancing the cages we hang out at.”

“Hey! I did not steal it. Check again. This time look inside the corners of your mind, where spiders race for life and death wishes and atoned for take-out sins. You might find something interesting in there, if you have the guts to look.” “Thank you for the delightful insight. When should I expect the catharsis?”

I went down the street to prepare myself for the foreplay with the madness that you will put up later. Meanwhile, keep in mind that silence will definitely never not even listen to you, let alone understand you.


by Bahak B

artwork by Vel Thora

Full article here.