The Bell

by HelluvaGirl

In a huge bell that is not moved, its ringing subsided, you still see the nature of sound within, and sense its longing to be awoken. The bell is only alive when it’s ringing. The rest of the time it is but the memory of sound, persistent vibration in between the swings. 

Does it see meaning in the silence? Or is it eternally waiting for a strong wind or a skilled hand to bring it to its element?

I wish I were a thing. A silent bell. A snowy rooftop. An abandoned swing-set. They don’t feel, don’t aspire, don’t pine. They are.

They don’t give a fuck if they’re moved, misplaced or forgotten.

I sometimes look at things and envy them.