6/11

It’s no longer the sixth of November. I’m no longer who I was on the sixth of November, when I searched for the right words and couldn’t find them. That night, the words died, and darkness fell too soon. Along with the shutters, my eyes closed. It was as if I had forgotten how to speak. The words were dead.

So I dug them a grave, held a funeral on a Sunday full of sun, and sang them a song. I thought I would never speak again, that there were no more words left inside my mouth. I thought that silence had reached me even here, in this Dutch land.

But the words returned, in dreams. And now there are too many, so many that it’s almost as if there were none at all. They float, belly up.