Laconism

The birds whisper in the wind and I feel nothing. Not the wind or the snap of fallen branches. Not even the unsteady beat of my own heart; the single physicality that always woke me from my sleep. The days fall backwards, as though silence were the only earnest way to distinct one from the next, and some don't seem to move at all. The taunting laughter in the distance makes me comfortless, a feeble stone tossed among the trees that never grow. But I am not small, my veins still ripe with overgrown bravery, head full of lucrative potential. Scorn from what I can only reason as arbitrary dogma. The line has blurred where loneliness began and emptiness remained. I have grown too proud to turn to God, ineligible for his sustenance, too distant for amendment.