Is That White Noise?

I often wonder why it is
I cannot write with silence.
I have been told by teachers and peers alike that silence tends to allow for no inspiration;
The audible equivalent of
staring at a blank canvass
but the silence is not silence -
it is not white noise or analysing the exact interval between one breath
and the other.

It is more harrowing and appears to exist solely 
to remind my consciousness that it is conscious
awake, aware, and nothing less than a memory machine 
intent on fighting what little resistance the rest of this vessel can muster

I do not like hearing nothing. 
It allows the voices in my head complete dominance
and nothing is more terrifying than relinquishing total control to the
metaphysical Hollow Men.
Most evenings my head and I enjoy a balance worthy of any accountants approval;
a little risky no doubt, but monitored with care and caution,
Almost parental.

But the silence,
That bleak refusal by the external existence to nourish my Perfect Balance
is not welcome in my home.
I cannot resist the temptations of godly rhetoric
No chamber unchallenged,
No language unpicked.

The hum of a fan can soothe both soul and body
but no matter the volume of the Symphony my headphones are playing,
Despite my malicious attempts to drown out the the permanent sounds, I do not think
they will ever concede defeat.

This is not Rome.
There is no conspiracy,
no Actium nor Augustus.
We exist as a single entity,
Caesar’s skin flayed



The folly of power

The pavement is hot in the July sun.
The space between my toes reminds me I am not a Siren
and I do not exist for others to learn.

I close the curtains,
Sip my whiskey,
Turn on the fan 
And fall asleep at once.

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