BURIED SOUL

Be quiet! Listen!  Do you hear it?  The sound, do you hear it?  I do.  I hear it all the time.  It is there ever present in my ear constantly nagging at my brain.  I fear I will go crazy from its incessant rasp upon my mind.  I cannot think straight anymore for the sound distracts me to no end.  It is all consuming, overwhelming, and yet you say you do not hear it. How could that be?

It is a horrid scratching sound.  One I would imagine a man to make who was buried alive and clawing at his encasement in one last feeble attempt to free himself of this horrible loneliness and solitude.  The desperation to escape the close quarters and stark darkness of his eternal rest and run into the light so clearly comes through with each rasping scratch of his bloody fingers, the futility of his efforts foretold in his own mind.

If I knew from where this sound was coming, I would run quickly to his aid.  For you see, my soul lies in this dark place with him and screams to be released.  Each time I hear the scratching I am reminded of the urgency to locate this poor victim and release my own soul to the light and fresh air of day.  Can you not hear it?  It is so loud, so loud!  The desire to escape echoes with each rake of the nails against the wood as the precious air within the chamber is consumed by the panic.  Oh, I must find it, I must!

Can a man’s soul be so tortured, so trapped that it would reach out to him in such a horrid manner?  To cry out in bloody scratches upon the splintered wood that is its prison, to cry out, for someone, anyone to release it.  Is there any greater futility than not knowing where to look when every rake upon the wood burns into your brain the need for discovery of this torturous fate?  My soul must be released from this prison but where must I look, the hour draws near?

Do you not hear it?  For God’s sakes, how could you not?  My heart bleeds from the torture of the constant rasp upon the wood.  There are no screams, no shouts, no crying, just the scratching upon the wood.  Oh if you could only hear then maybe then you could help me locate it and end this misery that has befallen my mind.  My soul is buried alive and hidden away to die.  Dear God, can you not hear?

Go now! Take leave of my presence for I must face this agony alone.  I shall not have you here before me staring on in shock and bewilderment while I suffer this hideous insanity.  My soul is crying out, man! Surely you must hear it, you must hear it!  Listen closely! Hear the bloody fingers on the wood?  I must find this prison soon or I will surely lose my mind.  Do you not hear it?

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