I write like a whisper.
The silence turns its back.
I say one more thing. Nothing.
We are bugs in a jar, each in our own. I can see your light but I cannot hear you. I try to scrawl out truths in the glass, but to you they look backwards, illegible.
You do not understand.
We are all so hermetically sealed within ourselves. And scrawling things out is madness, scratching skin from the inside, hoping to make plain to others what is impenetrable to my own self.
I call out, and there’s not even an echo. Just the dampening of what I was trying to say into something I can’t explain. And which you don’t believe.