Night Thoughts

Strange how one can sing and feel… nothing. Heart and soul rich in one’s voice, but no more than a façade, no more genuine than the pain etched on a figure sculpted in stone. Ugolino’s anguish is but the same cold marble as every other work sitting motionless in that sublime sunlit room. The bronze of the burghers feels no greater solemnity than any other bronze of Calais. So too my heart sits in a quiet chamber, unmoved by the emotion of my voice, untouched by the smile that adorns my face. Why so much embellishment? Tears and smiles are but the same jewels cast from the same source. The spring wells and flows, but does not irrigate the withering crop of an arid mind, nor wet the ashen palate of a silent tongue. Through the window I hear someone singing. Is it me? The voice alone is mine.