I find more and more of late that I'm withdrawing into silence. Sometimes I can feel it happening – I open my mouth to speak, think better of it, and shrink backwards, fading against a warm dull colourless cloak of nothing. My mouth closes, and a piece of me atrophies – not total death, just a small silent shrinking.
It’s an insidious giving up. Behind every silence is a thought - ‘these words are not worth sharing; this fight is not worth fighting; I am not worth listening to.’ Giving up. Giving in.
My face shows everything though. Without making a sound I yell outrage, scream hurt, thunder frustration. Someday I will learn to make a mask of my face. And then I will be entombed in a silent shroud of my own making, of my own skin. Silence, but without any peace.