There is a deep, mute despair beneath the innermost of the soul’s seals. You pick at the skin until it gives way, parting to reveal flesh, then bone, then nothing. There is no way inside, no way to operate on this invisible disease, hidden so far beyond your reach that even your own memories have forgotten their way there.
You are a vast emptiness, a word for the feeling of having no words.
You give up words for visions: a sea of pink elephants swimming amidst the rising sun; impending apocalypse; a dozen photos of the sunset spread out on a bed; a panic attack over time zones away; an old envelope filled with a moment, a breath, a key; the sounds of enormous flying whales, their wings flapping, flapping, moving higher and higher, and taking you up up up beyond air beyond sound beyond life to somewhere that never existed but matters more than anything that ever has.
Truth is not words, not being friends — truth is us right now, driving together at night in a fast-moving car in complete intense silence.