not fanfic
Jul. 14th, 2005 07:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
butterflydreamingI actually wrote something yesterday! And I have a whole extra hour this morning, which I am wasting on LJ!
Audio
I can only focus on one sound at a time, and switching between them is like listening to an orchestra tuning before a performance. The auditory channels click from the insistent chirping of a small bird in a nearby tree, to the uneven currents of traffic in the intersection of streets beyond the courtyard’s hedges, to an unseen man speaking loudly into his cellular phone. His volume decreases as he travels farther away. Soon, his belligerent intonations fade out. He is replaced by something closer, voices tossed back and forth, as if in a game.
This conversation is happening on the walkways of my mind’s estate. I’m not included in the verbal play; I am only a watcher. I suppose that I should write it down, but when my attention and focus move again, to the susurrus of dry leaves falling through branches of living green leaves, I realize that I wasn’t listening to the words of the discussion. I was letting the tone and timbre of it flow liquidly around and over me. The repeating chirps of the chickadee hold an equal quantity of meaning.
I am not able to keep my focus narrowed on any of the sounds for long. My attention resists taking in my auditory surroundings as a whole, and continues to periodically move inward again to follow the wanderings of another inner voice. My attention is swimming through the swells and waves of sound. It dives under; it rises through the surface.
Then, like an orchestra, the sounds coalesce into silence. In the pause of held breath, I hear a voice like a whisper in a library. It is a lullaby more spoken than sung. All the sounds have become this one composition containing everything; they have become the voice of the narrator, my own voice as it sounds when I tell the unwritten story as it unfolds.
Audio
I can only focus on one sound at a time, and switching between them is like listening to an orchestra tuning before a performance. The auditory channels click from the insistent chirping of a small bird in a nearby tree, to the uneven currents of traffic in the intersection of streets beyond the courtyard’s hedges, to an unseen man speaking loudly into his cellular phone. His volume decreases as he travels farther away. Soon, his belligerent intonations fade out. He is replaced by something closer, voices tossed back and forth, as if in a game.
This conversation is happening on the walkways of my mind’s estate. I’m not included in the verbal play; I am only a watcher. I suppose that I should write it down, but when my attention and focus move again, to the susurrus of dry leaves falling through branches of living green leaves, I realize that I wasn’t listening to the words of the discussion. I was letting the tone and timbre of it flow liquidly around and over me. The repeating chirps of the chickadee hold an equal quantity of meaning.
I am not able to keep my focus narrowed on any of the sounds for long. My attention resists taking in my auditory surroundings as a whole, and continues to periodically move inward again to follow the wanderings of another inner voice. My attention is swimming through the swells and waves of sound. It dives under; it rises through the surface.
Then, like an orchestra, the sounds coalesce into silence. In the pause of held breath, I hear a voice like a whisper in a library. It is a lullaby more spoken than sung. All the sounds have become this one composition containing everything; they have become the voice of the narrator, my own voice as it sounds when I tell the unwritten story as it unfolds.
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no subject
Date: 2005-07-14 06:53 pm (UTC)