What would I say is what I must say, a burden of one who keeps the dead?

A consequence of silence.

What would I say is what I must say, a burden of one who keeps the dead?

 

“What would I say is what I must say to thee. Most of “what I ‘d say would be asked and not said. But if I let out the question of what  I would ask by the palette of my

face people would think of me dead.”

 

This is what the letter said before one of the town fair fairs found the poor man dead. And how hard did his words come to bear?

 

The mortician, he or she said indeed he is dead; he was killed by the Unsaid.

 

You may ask in your pity in a moment of reflective grief if I may call it that: for why am I dead, exactly mortician, what is the Unsaid? The mortician grimmer and greyer than ever before. Gripped with the eyes sad speaking amongst the living and the dead:

 

Concerning the Unsaid, it is the repression, the oppression, and inexpression; all these and more that create the living dead. The questions never asked; the request never sought. By all this silence, a wade is brought upon the sole soul. This self-murder is a kind of silent death�"crushing and silent.

 

By every opportunity not taken the poor person’s expectation of life is thereby shaken and there forced to take another exile or exhalation and by these are their frames of life, their life longs slowly and silently--depressed.

 

At this someone in the group exclaims across from the mortician’s eye came up this objection, more an interjection than a decry. But all the same it came down to I and eye.

 

Wouldn’t the person that oppressed the soul as you say show some sign of their maladity or their madness. To this the mortician said nothing for the simple learn simply and usually by example.

 

(Let silence teach silence and so it was kept and the person who spoke was proven to be so inclined, so inclined in fact that he or she spoke no more.)

 

I will tell you wanderer though you wonder in vain. You are close in your question but not so close as to be wise. The sign for this maladity begins in the eye. The oldest window known to humanity. From there, it spreads next to the other I, the I of mind.

 

What is the cause and what is the wait for you spoke of a crushing and a depression but what is the root; first give us that? No one knows the exact calls of this darkest spark. But the weight is supplied by the bound.

 

The first to speak at the beginning spoke again but in different tones�"tones never used before. Can these, those with this spark�" Can�"how do these people live? Can they live?

 

Yes, they can live but oh so carefully these live. Most everyone knows they must breath in order be but what some people, these people must learn not once, not one way but two ways. They must master the life of second-breath.

 

They must recognize and master it through management for lack of air, lack of life. These people, there minds stir them to question, to seek, to ask, to know, to yearn after things. If they do not speak, they do not speak, they do not communicate. For the one’s afflicted by the Unsaid. If it remains so, they are surely dead.

 

One amongst them stirred, their soul, the mortician guessed was tearing towards a tear.

 

But he did not fear to say his unsaid: do not waste your salt and water amongst the dead but instead seek those who seek expression. Save the living from their depressions. More than you count are having the very life squeezed out of them by the ever constant silence about them.

 

And so I have said what I have said and this is mine. Mine alone�"my lines. My weight and burden. My Unsaid.