It’s funny that as meaningful as our lives are, sometimes all the matter drips away leaving nothing. I don’t feel anything at the moment and that’s a dreadful feeling. I want to know why this happens, why everything suddenly goes quiet. But I’ve a feeling deep inside, in the place where I only feel things that are true, that no one knows the answer, no one knows why. Maybe know no one even knows there an answer to know.
It’s quiet. Painfully quiet. I listen but it’s nonsense. There’s nothing. That isn’t fair, if there’s meaningful things in this world shouldn’t they always be meaningful? This feeling shouldn’t be allowed. Maybe it isn’t allowed. Maybe this feeling breaks all the rules.
I want to die. Not the whole death, simply stopping part. I just want to feel whatever it is that people feel right before they die. Surely there’s something there. Surely someone says something, they hear something? Isn’t there meaning there?
What am I doing here? Why is there no noise? Why isn’t anything moving? The drawings I drew won’t talk to me. They’re suddenly flat. Their meaning is gone. Why? Where?
I look at the things I love but they don’t talk they don’t feel. The books are blank. I desperately grab a book, eager and anxious to see if it has any words at all. It shouldn’t, I can’t hear them. I can always hear the words, even when I’m not reading them. If there are words in the book, then they’re being silent. I’d be able to hear them.
I open the book. There are words. I read them, but they don’t speak. I don’t speak. No one does anything.
This kind of silence shouldn’t be allowed. Where are the people? Even the ones I hate. I’d even take them at this point. I need a sound, a single sound. Give me anything. A sound. One sound.
They’re always warm, but everything’s gone cold. Not a sound. Not a sound anywhere.
What am I doing? Where am I? What do I do if there is no sound?
You put me here for a reason! You put me here to listen to speak. But there’s nothing to listen to, nothing making noise. And anything I say disappears as it leaves my soul. Is my soul still here?
I’m sorry, I’m just confused. I hate this silence. Will it end? If it does, will it come back? Will I survive it that time?
I’m scared and I’m small and I need to flee and explore and learn. I need your help. I need it now.
What do I do? Am I good? I want to be good.
Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry play chess in Fry’s rooms at Cambridge, 1980.