Without words, continued

Take away language and we go beyond the object, the person, the phenomenon.

Who, indeed, is more powerful?

The thunder outside is no longer thunder. It is not even noise. If you have no words then what does it become? Where does it go? Does it disappear? Is there no reality to it? Like the dark, deep, thick night, is it swallowed up into the depths of the night? Thunder, my friend, have you wandered off hand in hand with the night? Gone off exploring the jagged mountain tops. Thunder are you round and rolling like a wave? Is that why your counterpart is sharp and cutting like a serrated knife, cutting through the sky? I’ve always thought of thunder as a man and lightning as a woman. Lightning with its electrical zapping just seems so like a female caprice, a woman’s irritation screeching in a high-pitched line across the sky. She scrapes her fingernails across the sky in a silent defiance. She weeps hysterically in silent agony. That is lightning to the rumble of thunder, thunder, who chuckles at her silent frustration. She needs him to voice her, and yet he is invisible without her. He can be encompassed by the night, swallowed up by the night. The night takes his hand and leads him up beyond the mountain, as she silently scrapes her madness out in the sky, electrifying the night with her hysteria. She, almost a medical machine, measuring out life’s forces, no sound, she screeches nonetheless “I am here”. She says “I am a pulse, a life, and he is gone.” Walked off with the night in his familiar way, chuckling off as the rapids of the river echo back to him their impotence. He is all-powerful, a magnificent male. He can meet the jagged skyline and wrap his velvety voice around them in his sensual dance with the night. They, the threesome, thunder, the night and the mountain, and poor lightning left to run screaming naked down the road in her abandoned silence. In her abandonment she scrapes a trail through the sky, attempts to wound the mountain, to cut open the night. A woman scorned, she is, as her distant lover wanders off to his sensual games with the night and mountain. He rumbles out, rolls out a drum roll, and she screams across the sky, ripping her hair out in dispair.


About wilhelminatunnels

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