Three pages of nothing.
Three pages of things I’ve said.
But that’s not accurate.
There is so much said between the lines.
That I did not give voice too.
I denied them that.
I am in control.
This is not a dream, but a concretization reality.
The quieted unquiet.
How does one give voice to the silence?
Even in giving it voice, another thing will be denied.
It is the paradox of language.
It cannot be otherwise.
Only one thing can ever be said.
And it is not that.
It is this.