The dictatorship of the brain takes control of your feeling heart and patches all self-inflicted wounds with the black-cloaked conclusions of the over-drained knowledge stolen from each innocent emotion.
They say that with love you have to let yourself be dragged by your emotions. Every single human should have experienced the feeling of love at least once in a lifetime, love that told a story, different from all others, unique as the people in love. It’s interesting how the love story comes to be and how its plot takes its very unique path, a long and tiring path with few turns and slopes, or a roller coaster-like path that could probably crash before reaching the end of the road. The latter could drive you quiet mad with all of its tight turns, ups and downs, and sudden speed changes, especially when it’s actually all going inside your head as you walk the long, grey and silent former path.
Yes, silence gives time to think. It grants you a moment to sit, lean back, and have an analytic look at the fresh sentences of the new book you recently bought: your love story. Rather than reading the last pages, you look at the actual book. It’s missing a shine somewhere. It’s not looking as fantastic as it looked when finding it clean and empty in one of your secret bookshelves; it’s not giving you the smile it gave you when gazing at it for the first time and reading the promising back-cover of which you’re author of. You then wonder why it is so silent. You wonder why you can’t read the book with your heart rather than your brain. You wonder why you question each line not with your oppressed feelings, but with the ones described in the pages of a different book, a book you haven’t read which tells the same story from the perspective of the one who has kept you in silence.
The oppressed feelings rise against the dictator, but it will always sum up to a senseless battle of tear-shed. Your emotional status is hanging from your interpretation of that other book that you don’t know much about. You want to know, but you fear to finish reading before you start. Still, you want to read, but you can’t let its reader know, otherwise those uncharted pages could get filled up with the memories of some crazy man who took the roller coaster without paying for a ticket knowing he was afraid of adrenaline. You wouldn’t like to read that, and you can’t forget the fact that that other reader could also be willing to read your story, could.
And you fear of silence. You’re waiting for the turns but you just can’t find them, not without the knowledge of the opinions and critics of the other reader regarding the story. It’s also difficult, though, knowing she doesn’t actually likes to read. You stumble and fall as the war inside you grows on and your path turns foggy. You don’t know where to go and the strive becomes forced.
You wait to find and board the dreamt rollercoaster, let the books become one, and overcome the tyrant once and for all. You listen to music on the way, you get distracted. You gaze at the horizon with a smile and you see the dark chapter is gone, it never existed.
But then you think… how are you supposed to find such thing as a roller coaster while roaming through such blinding silence in the middle of nowhere?