It is quiet and spacey
No voice beckons, no company calls.
It feels nice, then quiet, then too silent,
and I often think: when does the notion of freedom bleed into isolation?
When does the feeling of warm comfort become a strain?
The quiet space starts collapsing within,
Then the only sound is the silent one, that feels loud and blaring and deafening.
I wonder: what about the future? Will it be quiet too?
Is this my personality, a bad mood, a time-of-the-month? A hormonal shift, a moon cycle play?
And then it begins again, another day, another evening by the window, wandering in half-thought, half-soliloquy, full-___.