Shouting

I am shouting.

I am shouting into the void, it seems. 

I am shouting, and my voice disappears into the immensity of the mystery in which I dwell.

This mystery is rapacious, volatile, and yet immovable, unconcerned for my wellbeing. It takes and takes and delivers nothing in return. Like a void, it consumes all that I give it, willingly and unwillingly, and serves up only terrible consequences and an unbroken, ravaging silence of its own.

Sometimes it pokes back at me, silently, producing all manner of torments carved to cling to my condition in permanent ways. These accumulate around me, ever more barriers between where I am and where I want to be. 

My health, my wholeness, my abundant access to those material basics needed to live a full life, are all dragged relentlessly into this ravening void. I am tired by this constant, active absence of every thing that was promised to me, over and over again.

So I shout.

I am shouting. 

I am shouting into the void. 

My voice disappears but the void is no longer insensible to my condition. There are no more excuses, delays or failed promises that can land silently, under some lie or false pretext, without me screaming its details in every direction. The conscious, willful grind of the mechanism that drives this void will take into itself the enlivened rust of my resistance. All of the lies and falsehoods will be returned, oxygenated by my voice and oxidised by the corrosion of my own life, to the very centre of its operations. 

I am shouting into the void.

And I will be heard.