When it travels, it caresses your throat. You’re so used to it by now that it’s just a habit, a pesky thing that is loud and soft and it has a job to communicate. It gets in the way, when my teacher calls me out for talking to my companion while Miss was talking. Often, we can control it. Unoften, you cannot control it, unless you were a special one. The eyes of it don’t exist, although it would be interesting to see those eyes if it were to exist. Wow! Those eyes, like “it,” would persuade you, welcome you (not), judge you, and listen to you. Those eyes would be more piercing than the ones you have on right now. Why isn’t “it” a sixth sense (without eyes, of course)? I think it should be. You know what, I think I’ll start a petition to have it as a sixth sense. It can do so much. You can listen to it all day: listen to the nursery of the white fleece of lambs, listen to the story of your grandfather’s deaf mother, listen to The Man with the Muck-rake and listen to the gift meant for ears. The gift meant for your ears gets you dancing, smiling and crying. Music arouses emotions and takes you on different paths to trace the meaning behind those lyrics, rhythms and instruments. Wind instruments are produced by “it;” instruments buzzing to only float away in the air and mingle with other sounds.

          Sometimes the conch shell echos the ocean, a deranged, lonely man murmurs, the child exclaims, and girls whisper. Sometimes he will curse. Sometimes the pink parakeets will chirp. Those are all part of the real “it.” Sometimes the wind will blow through the gutter. Sometimes the rain will drip drop on to concrete or onto metal, which it will then plink plonk. Sometimes diamonds will scratch the glass. These are the abstract versions of “it.” She’ll cry out in pain when she’s giving birth. I’ll scream when the monster comes out of my closet. The moon will moan a sound of death when the time comes. “It” contains some hurtful aspects, some aspects that we may realize because it occurs to us, but we may not realize because it happens to nature. Yet, “it” cannot love. It can’t love in the sense where we feel the strongest, like a hug. It has the ability to love only if we take it. We can reject it. The meanings of the words that come out of our mouths can be sarcastic, hateful or loving. It all depends on how you and I interpret words, tone and the other person.

          I see a young boy, standing right by the edge of the shore, sand sinking into his feet, oh feeling so good, and the sand rising and sinking, as if bread was being warmly made. The soft, loving smell of the bread comes from his quaint, old-fashioned house where the smell wafts ubiquitously around, as if a wasps’ nest was enticed. That cozy smell blends with the smell of roses from the boy’s garden. He prances around his house, excited by the different smells, but misses the wormy feeling of sand sinking beneath his feet. The boy tastes the bread, delighted, and continues eating. But before he ate his stomach grumbled. After he ate the bread, he saw his grandmother suffer from a stroke because of her deteriorating health condition along with the hard work she’s done the entire day, which includes baking. He panics at the sight of her weakness, fanning her and taking her temperature. He hugs her and tears start to travel down his cheeks. He cannot utilize his sixth sense. His mind wanders around like a squirrel gone awry, like a racecar not on its track, like a game of Russian Roulette but the bullet missing the target. He cannot do anything; he cannot scream or fight or plead to the gods. He is deprived, shy; he can utter silence but he cannot shout to the sky or to the caterpillar or to the soundless snowflakes sprinkling outside his window; he is mute.