There once was a small town in the province of Heschl, where there lived a young woman, Silence. At dinner parties there was never an empty plate, for parts of speech she brought eight. She carried with her a fountain pen, and painted the taverns and shops with a poetic zen. Her suffixes, whether a -lit or -ation, completed the prefixes that rushed out of the mouths of the people with confident start and lacking end. The tiny houses, one or two story, were ever so carefully framed with her guidance. If she tried to mediate a dilemma it was common knowledge to let her, because with every pro she brought a con, and for every right, she could present with a wrong. Her words were beautiful to see, her similie like a hot, body warming tea.
Then one day, silence fell in love. He was so empty of meaning that Silence was drawn to smother him with everything that she might have. His jacket was the most beautiful, darkest of blues that she imagined it caused the purples, indigos, and violets that shared near on the rainbow to faint. His eyes read of nothing but were stained with a story of a million lifetimes. Somewhere in his jacket she imagined there to be a tiny pocket-watch where he kept all of time at a standstill. He was undefined, needing, and lost. His name was Sadness.
To his cold lips she lifted a warm cup of story, and hoped that it might flow life and joy into his tired veins. He tasted the broth, and pushed the cup away. She aired his dark cape in a lovely fragrence of pun and wildflowers, and he returned a cold, empty stare. Around his shoulders she put the blanket of a sonnet, her most powerful words paired in twos and threes, and his response was a mistrusting, flash of grimace, of seize.
Sadness’ first response was with neutral melancholy, but soon he scratched away all formality and started to bear the turmoil he created inside himself. Silence wanted so badly to give him her words, but he ridiculed her. He brought out the demons that so haunted him and released the pain that he felt into her open heart. He captured her song with his fist, squeezed it until it trickled no more, and cast it across the room where it hit the wall, and crumpled to the floor. In her decades of life, the only thing she could bring to a fight was her word, and without her word she was as vulnerable as the empty lines that were missing it. Silence had tried, so hard, but Sadness could not bear to let her words give him sustenance.
She had nothing more to give him. Her words had failed her. Her eyes, reflecting the being across from her, were stained with Sadness. There was never a time when no gesture went without the beautiful song of Silence. There was never a moment when human thought or desire was left without a way to express it. This moment marked a change in the short, but ever-present human history. Silence had fallen in love, and fallen she would remain. The entire village too, was at a loss for words, and they would never recover from this new inability to not effortlessly express themselves.
And now, Silence put down her pen, and for the first time, parted her lips, and there was truly nothing. The laughter of beauty receded into the tapestries, and the echos of hope hid behind the mountains. For the first time, the world heard the sound of silence, and it was heartbreaking.