31. THE MAN WHO GREW TIRED OF SILENCE

THE MAN WHO GREW TIRED OF SILENCE

Each day he walked the long hill, as if in captivity,

with a numbing silence all around him : bent slighty

while arms held askew, carrying a bag or a book

or two - he'd trudge the morning incline watching

the Sun approach or the birds fly or clouds erupt

in rain. No matter, it was always his silence which

held him in thrall.

Others who passed would cast a glance, perhaps a

nod, but never a word or two - instead just the echo

of that same silence, due - he'd think - to something

innate, something held within him, some reticence to

talk or chat. Anything would have been better than

this silence.

One day, in an April moment, he began to talk aloud -

to anyone and all passing. Simple things at first - things

which brought responses, cheery hello's and smiles,

the small talk of a million minds. Then it got complicated.

Stories and endless divergences. Incredible tales of

furies and feats. Rambling theories on sound and squid,

soil and matter, what should be done, what someone did.

It all entered a ramshackle world - they soon found out - of

this man's own making; so that before long he was within silence

again. Once more, his own very dense closet - no word,

no sound, no utterance passed. 'Well', he thought 'it had

been an adventure. Maybe someday I'll try it anew.'