Martha Mathis
Stories (1/0)
The Resurrection of Death City
White noise. The loudest part of silence. Somewhere off in the distant corners of quiet, the static emptiness transforms into noise. The sound of nothingness becomes something that can barely be heard. A faint echo dances through the ear canals, morphing into whatever the mind is inclined to shape. Clattering, clamoring, chatter. Incoherent noise. Overlapping ideas break the shore-front of my mind like waves, rousing consciousness from the depths of sleep. Invisible forces nudge my body left, then right. Muscles begin to twitch on an otherwise motionless face. The brow furrows. I can feel the urge to stretch. My head turns, lids lift and eyes roll forward to focus. It is still dark. Giving into the stretch with a sigh, I angle my neck until the clock comes into view. It's three o'clock in the morning. Wide awake at 3 AM. I wonder what all that noise was about. Closing my eyes and reaching for the nearest thought, it is evident that only one remains, I have not written anything in a long time.
By Martha Mathis3 years ago in Journal