Something in the walls, in the ceiling, is thrumming. It pulses against my spine, never constant, like wind, or thunder, or perhaps a heartbeat. This notion catches me by surprise, and now this corridor becomes a throat, but where is the belly of the beast? Is it the center? Or do we simply pass through, back outside, and it feeds on our motion, our stress and frantic pace?
This nook is cozy. I slept, for a minute or two, and dreamed of storms and open plains, of friends sticking together though the world was against them. Friendship, when done right, can be just as stunning as the sky, and as powerful as this earth, which hurtles through space, strong, yet gentle, so that we do not even feel it turn.
The thrum grows, and I wonder, perhaps a prisoner is kept in these walls. A being that spends its days beating on them, until his hands are raw and mind is empty of hope. Getting out is the only desire he knows. I got out of something like that once. My heart was raw and angry for many months afterwards.
This morning I looked at the clouds and thought "Humans are always getting stronger." From the moment we're born to the day we die, all we do is adapt. Skin once soft and delicate grows rough through wear, and so we buy products to make it smooth again. Wounds heal to scars, blisters to calluses, and hearts just harden against the pain. At birth, we keen with hunger, we can't stand the agony, and yet now, we can put off eating for far too long.Our minds have learned that they are stronger. Heartbreak, too: each one seems to chip away at the inner idealist all people have, or once had.
The ceiling is humming and I wonder if the beast within feeds on our pain, the stuff we have learned to ignore. Perhaps it knows that we aren't using it.
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