Our Eternal Sounds

What might all songs lean into? You scramble eggs one moment, and in the next minute you're eating them with dry toast and black coffee in silence. On a day like any day, your voice is not your own: the grass clippings disrupt a robin too large to fly from worm to worm. We don't know why we speak, but yet our voices persist, even when void of substance— like a dream you'd like to recall throughout the day, but you don't or you can't and after a week, it's gone forever. Of course our voices evolve years before our bodies— our vocal cords vibrate like a heartbeat, senselessly. No explanation needed. Eventually all languages converge. Each thought falls into all others. And what thought resists being built by words? Perhaps fear placed us here in this room together: a fear of fire at one point turned into a fear of God. After that, a fear of godlessness, a room where a word before another word and another word after the first was all we had, all we could imagine. Somehow an image means more than the object itself but not because it's made of words. Most likely it's because the act of creation sets the mind down like a bird in a field where the speed of the invasive cannot exist.