I heard the voice, the voice of ones that couldn’t speak in a language I can understand. But I understand in the shallowest degree, their cry. I do not know what they are crying for specifically, but I hear them. I hear them yearning for something that is quite out of reach or maybe something to be removed from their body. It drags on for sometime before I slide open my window, letting go some of the conditioned air trapped in this cube, peering with ears trying to be ever so sensitive to pick up the lightest and the softest sound. Funny, sometimes my friends refer to me by the moniker half deaf. This is not the first time I’ve heard these voices, and I’m not saying that this is the doing of some odd spiritual being. I’m just saying that that’s what I heard. I repeated the action of sliding open the window and stretching my neck out as far as I could trying to determine where did these voices come from a few more times. There was only the sound of the carpark, the trees, the water from the neighbouring toilets. There is no cry. Every time I hear it, there is no voice and there is no cry. But when I sit back down on my bed, there they are. I wonder how are they, whoever might be, doing.
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