“If liberty means anything at all. it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.” George Orwell
I awaken to water dripping down my face as I’m reminded of the words that destroyed me. Instinctively I reach out for them, reach out for the ones above me still snapping the pictures, still writing my story, telling me who I am. In a flash of shadows my mother and my sister appear still holding my burning words, I touch my stomach and see their large empty eyes, chaining me to the idea of my own existence.
– Can you tell me what this word means to you? What does love mean to you?
-…
I see The Movement slowly ascending the hill in the far distance as the man with the beard is furiously writing. The Movement is flickering in and out along with their candles, in and out of the shadows and fog becoming a slow flickering cloud moving along with the wind. I can no longer see them, but their presence does not disappear. The man with the beard appears to feel them, as in the middle of his furious pace, the words sing to his ears,
Now I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
They would not listen, they did not know how,
perhaps they’ll listen now*
In a slow fury the words he’s writing continue falling to the ground in a pile of ashes, flickering along with The Movement, entering the beat of his heart as he whispers, resist.
-Not sure the words exist anymore.
-Someone is taking the words? What does it mean to you?
-Your sentences are taking the words, telling me I’m crazy is taking the words, telling me who I am is taking the words. I am not you, will never be-
-What does love mean to you?
The Detective is in a large room, a Japanese restaurant where the tables are covered in white cloth, the entire back wall is a giant fish tank. There is a wind up lizard toy on the table shooting out sparks as it moves. A waiter stands in front of him, writing in his notepad even though The Detective isn’t saying a word. He places his hand over the candle in the middle of the table and glances around the room. There is not one person in the room whose eyes are not upon him. He watches a crack form running down the front of the fish tank as the lizard toy walks off the edge of the table. He clutches his stomach and closes his eyes.
-No separation…existing as one
*Don McLean
worldzendfarm 