The Voice That Never Speaks

All these why’s are incomplete. Whenever you ask a great sounding question it’s easy to forget that the answer is still bullshit. Even the truest seeming stories are at best inspiring delusions coughed up by someone you believe you ought to respect.

People often accuse me of being cold or callous, but that isn’t even half-true. I fake toughness by choking some innate reflex to explain my intentions, because once they’re spoken they lose their grace. Real love isn’t something reducible to mere words, and as such, silence is generally preferred. I fear the combination of losing the pain from bearing poorly articulated reasons and being stuck with half-assed descriptions would rob life of a prayer’s chance in hell at grasping higher meaning.

Trying to make or believe in beautiful things without even the faintest sprinkle of superstition would just be too much.