The Siren’s Call

The siren has called me. It resonates with my soul. A deep longing, fit to be filled, a promise of final and absolute satiety. Out of chaos, out of silence, out of a thousand faces, out of utter loneliness, the Voice has pierced the reticence of the universe to answer the twisting desire of my quiet desperation to be known. How could a Voice taste sweet? Yet it goes down smooth as honey. I heard it in secret, it knew my name without giving it a word.

There was no reason to pack my things. My backpack lay open and its contents scattered across the floor from the previous night; a half-eaten sandwich, an uncharged computer, my journal filled with notes and drawings, they were to me now the remains of a past and distant life. Such trinkets would hinder my swift passage to the source of the Voice, and become useless when its promise of fulfillment was consummated. I nearly tossed aside the knife I kept in my pocket, but some inner whisper-distinct, and altogether different from the Siren’s call-urged I hold on to it. I could not perceive the necessity of this reason, but as I was now a leaf and not a man, blown by nature and not force of will, I took each voice without question.

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