Speaking in Tongues

Sometimes I fear I'll write in a language no one speaks
or in a language soon to be spoken by nobody.

Let me take you into this.

One fine day you wake up and all you know is gone. The opaque walls that surround you have turned to dust and everyone you loved was never there to begin with. There are no faces to look at. No eyes to stare into. No freckles to count.

There's no one to look at you. Your hair grows long, your skin thick and your nails start to roll. The dirt accumulates beneath your toes and between them... and not even the colonies of this and that which grow on your legs, make you stir.

You wander empty streets. Empty paths. You wander the empty. You don't need to eat. Drink. Sleep. Simply walk around, taking in the trees, the mist, the sun, the sand... whatever may be around.

You are naked. To yourself you are clothed with all you need. As there is no one to see, there is no one to care... And if there were, you'd have no sense of self anyway.

On the ground you come across a page. A page as out of place as an ink blot on a wedding dress. Unaffected you pick it up. The paper is crisp as new, the ink in its rightful place, the corners unbent, the sides untorn. And yet. Yet every symbol. Every shape stares up at you. Every ink drop contemplates your features, every curve extends itself to check your expression, to peer up... at your blank face. All the tales that could be written, all the secrets that could be shared, all the bad punctuation, beautiful grammar... are out of your reach. Meaningless dot after line after slash. You release it, it screams its silent way to the ground. You walk on.

(...)