"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time..." - Macbeth (William Shakespeare)
The faint knock on the door breaks the loudness of silence again. All the imaginary hue and cry in Sylvester's head grows faint, the pictures become colourless and vivid, and the sound that emanates when bone hits wood completes its journey from an echo to a crisp, sharp and articulate call to attention.
"What is it!" barks Sylvester to the anonymous skeleton behind the door.
The knocking stops. And for a few moments it appears as if the prepetrator is contemplating returning at a more agreeable time.
But before conscience can hold sway of judgement, a less irate voice speaks: "Can't you see that the indoors is unlit? That implies that either no one is present or whoever is present wants the wanderer to assume that they're not!"
"In times like these one cannot rely on accustomed norms. The indoors is unlit but outside is as alive as daybreak, with the conflagrations outshining a full moon past midnight. Should that be taken as an invitation to stray into the streets and pay respects to the banquet of the god of pillaging?"
What is this voice? Cloaked behind a door propagating words with a message slightly hidden.
"Your god is not my god..."
"When divinity is the reason we hate each other, how are our beliefs any different? You burn my tent in your god's name. I burn your's in mine. We both bow to the god of pillaging..." The sound of a thousand steps interrupts the outsider, "And there's the call to prayer..."
There's some chanting in the streets. Mischief is afoot. To bear witness to the mob action would be to allow sorrow to seek refuge in the deepest confines of your conscience where it would forever cast a shadow on every emotion felt henceforth. Like a forgotten bad memory, all thoughts would start with dread and even pleasantness would be remembered with a frown. The scene outside is a sick reminder that evil always seeks to outdo itself; murder is not enough now, mutilation is.
The identity of the voice is of little concern to him now, the safety of the unknown person behind the wall spurs him to change the topic.
"You are not safe out there. If they find you... come inside, the door is not secured."
"I do fear the streets but there are dark corners that may protect me. You might disagree but is your abode secure? You lit the match that set these flames ablaze. Why should I trust when you believe our gods are not one, that we are not one?"
"The air that we breathe, though separated by these walls, is one. It will carry your words as it carries mine, as it carries both our lives in its tight fist. The air that instills fear in you, must rally me to cower as well. Therefore, come in and keep your mind at peace!"
"But it is not fear that governs your countenance, it is madness and rage. And while we share this air, let us not share our rage - let us separate our madness; let these walls remain..." said a voice that he knew; a young voice but with an old message. A young body but an aging soul. Was it her?
Moments, unaccustomed to the routine march of time, pass by where a long time is not measured by minutes but by the degree of uneasiness that only the wall of silence nourishes. That wall of silence, now more tangible than before becomes more potent than that wall of brick and dirt that only separates the physical. The wall of silence disconnects two sides more completely than any other. Making one unaware of the presence of the other, and in love and in hate one's existence depends on the existance of the counterpart.
