Of Pain

I was reading through some of the "I Saw You" style of personals in The Stranger.

You: Girl in red sweater, blonde hair and cute glasses. Me: Bookish fellow in dire need of a haircut. Our eyes met on the bus. Coffee?

I was struck by how painful they seemed.

Not much more to say about that.


I've been kicking around this sentence for awhile and finally did something with it. Enjoy.

Wraithvoice
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The language of ancient Sumer was once the universal language, spoken across the entirety of human existence.

They found the rosetta. It was in one of the dark places, the deepest part of humanity's beginning, where nobody had been in thousands of years, hidden from everyone. The ancients had known that the only way to stop an idea is to forget it, to make sure that no attention was drawn to it.

Sumerian as a language diappeared virtually overnight.

There was no portend, no essential wrongness of the place, no ominous murmur, no arhythmic hum. They took it from that place, took it away to study and uncover and translate and reveal. They succeeded. They spoke aloud what was written, and unleashed once more the thought-specters, the idea ghosts that move through speech and song, the dead terms.

Now, they speak only pain and sing only despair.

Our numbers dwindle. Their numbers can only increase, they of the wraith voice. Our children ask why we move, why some of use cannot speak, why some of us cannot sing. Our children ask why we must run from the others.

We tell our children: their words are haunted.
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That's all for now.