Pressing On, In Silence

Housed in the larger room outside the door, lifeless they sit. On the surface they are deemed unreadable, and in the rounding of their character, their anonymity is revealed by means of a mute collective language. Without breath, quite willingly they rise, relinquishing their faceless bodies to the burn of the sun. At night they unconsciously mingle with the elevated moon while a hawkish wind covertly explores their nakedness. As if by design, solitude for them, comes quite naturally. Only a few eyes, enticed by their whisper, give notice to the details of their introverted tendencies, which enables a slight distinction of one from the other. Cemented to time, we have no idea what they suffer through, yet their hardened heart, with its internalized core of steeliness, offers their character some semblance of weight. By morning, unable to work off an invigorating sense of renewed energy, they keep watch on the horizon, anxious to see how the day will unfold. Quietly they adjust to the hours with a keen understanding of the importance found in ordinary things – especially those that press on into the light.