Silent Lies

19th January 2009

Dear Reader,

'If looks became me, their silence would be deafening'.

It's dark now. As I sit here typing, being lulled into a trance by the sirens melody of clicking keys. I gaze out past the window and am mesmerized by the landscape of the city buildings. The only light procured by my room is that of neon signs and flickering street lights, the same enchantment that noir films aim to capture. The full moon is decadent tonight, its spectacle casting sillhoettes on the litter covered side walks. Sirens wail as another victim is born and the shouting of two jilted lovers drowns out the serenity of the night.

This town is full of silent lies; if you listen carefully you’ll hear their cries on the undercurrent of this city’s history. What has now become a cesspool of filth was originally fostered from filth.

Such interludes warrant reflection. Even though I love this city, I can’t help but compare it to my childhood home. A small rural town has much to offer, the sun burns brighter, the air is crisper and everyone brags about that special family recipe. Our home was not the worst in the street, my mum used to always tell me that ‘the walls have secrets, but they should never be spoken’. Her answer to keeping our houses’ mouth shut was to work hard and make sure the family home was up to scratch, according to neighbourhood standards. I barely played outside and found a certain pleasure in keeping a close eye on fellow neighbourhood rascals while I peered through a small slit in the front window curtains. I used to watch them ride their bikes up and down the bike paths that had feigned an orange, red and non-regal golden hue during the spring time. Leaves would leap into flight as the boys sped past the giant resting piles at a million miles per hour. I remember never feeling jealous, just different.

The problem with small towns is that news travels fast. Mum’s effort at silencing our houses big mouth was futile. Whispers turned into rumours and rumours into snide snickering. We became the family that no one cared about. When my dad had walked out of our lives, I felt like one of those leaves that had inherited flight after the bikes rode past, I felt free; like a weight had been lifted. But while in mid flight, that leaf had turned into a rock, no longer was I drifting without a care in the world, I was falling, falling at a pace that meant only certain disaster. Again my mother and I had been abandoned, but this time it wasn’t by just one man, but by a whole town that had lost its compassion for the weak.