Whispers

Some things reside in a spark of nothing. They need nothing, nor do they want a thing. Merely time and space. Sometimes I think that perhaps I am one of those things, residing in a perpetual spark that consists of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Dark space, waiting to be noticed.

Were it true, I would not complain. There is little for me to fear in the darkness any longer. I have lived there so long as it is. Though I do not think it the truth of this existence, or what there is of it, the time being, considered. Dark space perhaps, but not nothing. A spark is something, after all. But now that it comes to it, a spark of what? Were I to find the answer, were I to share it, would it make the slightest difference? None of you have found it on your own. But perhaps.

I would suppose that a much more suitable question would be one posed as such: Would you search for your own spark would you be given the chance? Should you choose yes, then perhaps you would listen to the ramblings of an old man. There is little I can offer to you, but much for you to take. And I should hope you take what you can; there is so little else that is freely given to you. This world, this place, it certainly is not what it could have been.

Would you rather play the games of the youth and ask the vampire a question? Or would you take it upon yourself to see past the imaginations of children, find your adolescence and ask an old man about a world he once knew? Things die and ages change. But life is always constant. Persistent. And with life comes the changing of eras. I might be an old man, but I am hardly not a child. My life is hardly an instant to be noticed, not like most children these days whose lives are long drawn out dramas, elaborate and faux. My life could be lived in an instant, but it would be true.

No one asks me questions any longer. They do not stay long enough to ponder anything worthwhile that they could glean from any words I might speak in passing. It does not matter any longer. If one chooses to listen, there will be someone somewhere to speak. If there are none to listen, all will be spoken anyway, in some shape or form, if only unnoticed. I would rather repeat to myself things I find important, than to be silent and forget. Silence though, is something I have grown fond of. If it should bring forgetfulness with it, then so be it. In time, I shall remember. Through circumstance, I shall remember. It will not make a difference.

Nor will the passing of my name. My existence may be my own, but I would give it away all the same. I like my time, and on occasion I like to serve. I would serve those who are worth serving, who are deserving of more than one such as I could give. But I would gladly give my all for them anyhow. It is what I do, though few would have ever guessed. Fewer still, will ever believe. It makes me think that somewhere inside of me I should care. Perhaps it should upset me instead of the calm and silent indifference that wells in my soul.

My life may be something I live, but would you think it to be true? So silent and brooding and dark... So many things that you wish were true. I am no romantic fool. I do not like the light in your eyes. I think, and perhaps indeed I do brood, but not on things you would assume from someone as tragic as I. So silent and resentful and afraid to join the young crowd of children come to my aid. I am old and I am young; I am many things. Many things that contradict each other, though that is never noticed.

I enjoy speaking intelligent conversation when it suits my fancy. Who is there to speak with, then? So I remain silent, steadfast in the conversations I may find within myself. There is always something to be learned from those. I used to enjoy the sunlight and the radiance upon which it reflected in the land. I was twisted and molded and reshaped. The sun is still bright, but it has lost its surreal perfection. In the moonlight I can watch the shadows morph into unspeakable things that refuse to exist. I can be realistic.

The whispers I hear mean nothing, though sometimes they can offer disappointment. There is no example that I can set that any would follow. There are no words I could speak that any would hear, heed, or listen to. There is nothing in my posture or my eyes to indicate that I feel anything. There is nothing there at all. Perhaps the glint from a light somewhere, but then, perhaps not. My light burns elsewhere. Whisper of me all you like, it will die on the wind. I would think I know myself more than any other soul, or perhaps it should be better said, than any other mortal soul. But of course, I could be wrong. I have been before.