I constantly hear the repeated chaos that results from fights of broken promises, be it tales of hunting, fishing, racing, Kerry, Cork, or Derry. And nothing happens. Nothing ever did happen and nothing ever will happen.
The daily reoccurrence that triggers the familiar thoughts of , perhaps neglect, for thats how strongly I feel about the circumstance, or perhaps disdain, because it is obvious how oblivious I have become, cement these feelings of hegemony increasingly deeper.
I pace back and forth in a room that stretches four paces long and two paces wide, the remains of what proceeded me in this dark and dampened place sticking to the back of my throat. I shall remain here for another twelve hours or more, restless, agitated and hungry. From first impressions this is a long way from what I expected.
Like clockwork the voices return, the source of which begins to trickle about six feet to the left of my Ironclad door. I listen inattentively, but I cannot help but accumulate the gossip that becomes ever so increasingly negative, and judging by the pitch and timbre of the new voices, it continues indefinitely on its far seeking journey.
Yet it is these voices and the words they carry that bring me the greatest comfort, for they are the words of blind men, lost in a sea of opposing resistance. Even I know that the best option is in solidarity, a coming together of minds to think of a solution. Why regurgitate the feelings of the past and the emotions it brings with it. Thats how I see it and I am not even one of those.
Then I sneeze, I sneeze again, and again, the third one causing my head to jilt frantically to the left, crashing against the Ironclad door. I shake uncontrollably trying to release whatever more surprises my nasal has in store before I subconsciously make a noise that has never before been omitted from my body. As I finish off the ordeal with a outstretched yawn the first thing that strikes me is the silence. Everything was over witin 6 seconds.
I don’t trust silence. For me it offers up nothing but untruthfulness. When the voices that had filled the air with rage suddenly fall silent, I know that the muted night shall be broken by violence. I hear the grass fold under feet that seem nervously cautious of making a sound, creeping tentatively ever closer. My bodies natural reaction is to crouch and prepare for attack as the noise of the rust infected lock edges open.
There are four faces I can see, and perhaps two hidden from view, yet instinct declares that I pounce forward as soon as the door is ajar. In the craziness that proceeds, the only thing I can recall is biting someones hand before I leap onto the picnic table, to the little shed, the boundary wall, and freedom. Again within six seconds. I not only think of the words of the blind men, but now their behavior. I howl uncontrollably. As i wonder with nowhere to go, I know ill be ok.
Mans best friend me.