A Louder Silence

TWENTY LITTLE TRAGEDIES BEGIN

There's no sane way to number the disasters contained in the vault. Too often restocked, no dust will ever settle on the bulging hinges. Suffocating blackness inside, stuffed with cargo too heavy to heft but too valuable to release. Stored in infinitum, all the cruel words and right intentions, concerns and conceits. Destiny will charge rent for the space they've taken up with useless items but cleaning out the clutter means taking ownership of the baggage. Admitting fault. Accepting blame. Their adversity is sold raw; pink in the middle and oozing out all the important things until what's left is crumbling chalk.

SHE'LL SNIPER YOUR MIND

Somewhere behind the pores of immaculate skin is a rifle for every occasion. Well-oiled and aimed in perpetuity. Joan of Arc with a sighting scope. He's never felt so at home in the crosshairs, this kind of danger breeding the closest thing to a satisfied life that he's known. He'll suffer the delusion that progress looks like this, rather than confess how truly condemned they are. They are complimentary victims. She shoots by instinct. He ducks by habit. Her practiced aim compensates for his frantic velocity. Besides, her bullet cannot be evicted from the nook it carves in his brain when he willingly places the apple upon his head.

I'M A GHOST IN THE WRONG COAT

She makes him want to be better, which only makes him worse. There's something about not deserving happiness that steers him toward securing that fate. Guilt that he might drag her down to his level is only tolerated through the suspicion that she's already beaten him there. So he tries too hard to not try. She'll see his malfunction and raise him a calamity. It all sounds wrong but their song has only one chorus and even he knows how it goes. He's enshrouded in the tune, huddled inside and pretending it fits. But even the most strident whistle can be drowned out by someone else's louder silence.

WE'LL SCRAMBLE FROM THE BLAME

After the bitter liquid has scorched his throat, the idea drifts upward like heat from a flame. But it curls and evaporates in the cool of her disbelief. The reception makes it no less true; he's very nearly grown up now, save for a few clinging flaws. The hardest trait to conquer is the urge to scuttle to one side when culpability barrels forward. They take it in turn to get the ball rolling, but neither can stand still long enough to absorb the blow. His life is an imitation of a flighty bowling pin and it's more than the drink that prompts his declaration that he'll stand firm for the next round. An announcement of fortitude is doubted but she's got a case of surfacing optimism.

NOW I AM CRAVING HEARTBREAK

She's become confused by his willingness to be knocked down. He's become enamored by the lower pegs he's achieving. They've become more cohesive despite the dysfunction and it's possible that such unity will bond slightly faster than it wounds. Pain is a contagion and she ails with each strike she deposits. Pride in battle scars is hardly a new phenomenon and he's collecting them like artifacts, knowing their worth is not in material but in antiquity, proof of survival. Careful aging will result in thickening tissue and he'll only ask for more because it shows that he's finally trying to try. What scars him tames her. Giving in resembles a dive into the sea, gulping down breath and preparing to break the plane. She's taking that plunge as well because a cleansing wash is too tempting. After the fall, it is with gentleness that she opens the vault, lets the contents spill forth. They light a single match and watch the baggage burn.

Bolded lyrics by The Last Shadow Puppets.