The end of the line

There was a time when conversations travelled along telephone lines. Each sentence was tightly rolled up for its journey of tens, maybe hundreds, maybe thousands of miles. And when birds sat on the wire, they could feel what we were saying.

These days, our words don’t go down the line, they fill the air. The skies are strewn with layer upon layer of questions, mumbled feelings, softly spoken sentiments, long-winded explanations, clumsy assertions, excuses, lies, confessions.

The birds cannot fly under or over or around the dense pulsation of endless exchanges. They cannot fly away from what we are saying. All around them, everywhere is full of talk.

© Shona Main 2011

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