❝ I wish the ghosts would not make a home in our bones. ❞ || Self Para
"Sometimes the sound of silence is the most deafening sound of all," wrote K.L. Toth. Shiloh had heard the sayings that spoke of the ultimate silence and how unbearable it was, how there was nothing comparable to the loneliness experienced when all of your senses are cut off. The young man now knew exactly what it felt like to be cut off from the rest of the world. Swirling sensations filled his stomach with dread and terror after he woke up not being able to hear anything, then came the deeper panic. He had frantically tried to hear something, anything, no matter how minute or boisterous the sound. small rattle, a ring, anything to drive him from the insanity of the quiet. Shiloh had tried everything: banging on pots and pans, trickling his fingers across the keys, strumming notes on his guitar - nothing worked.
More often than not, the undulating waves of emotions that he kept to himself could be buried beneath his love for art, for a beauty that was not containable. Something in his chest vibrated to a dusky, dreamy smell of dying moons and shadows. His mind was filled with reveries of a brighter world, a crisp and clear world where mysteries weren't laced through every chapter of his life like the pages on an awfully over embellished scrapbook. His sense of touch, smell, and sound were the vessels of power that kept his mind in check, continually granting him access to the outside world. Now that one more sense was down, it was as if the universe was purposely mocking his impairments.
And when Shiloh felt things unlike any other watching him, the feelings came on strong. Other empaths had told him in the past that it was easy for them to bounce back to reality and ignore things they picked up on from the other realms. However, these were the creatures most attracted to Shiloh, since the man couldn't simply turn his ability off by opening his eyes. The blonde had had to learn how to control his abilities to the point where he was the one in charge, the one controlling the spirits and dark creatures that went bump in the night, seeking some sort of refuge and place of understanding with the young man. This feat was easily accomplished on most days, but at the time being, it required an uncharacteristically incredible amount of concentration just to keep the "demons at bay", so to speak. He knew things were watching him, prowling around him like a piece of meat and fighting over which took control over him next.
But it was when Shiloh took out an old book written in braille that he remembered how important it was to stay within his own skin and not wander the dark corridors of his mind during a time such as this. The language he realized he needed was older and intrinsically deeper than words. It was the language of the mind, the language of the body and spirit. The way one body rubbed against another, the magic behind being close to someone. Sensations of wind tossing his hair and blowing through snowflakes during the winters took him to another place entirely. Rain droplets skipping from one leaflet to the next in a vast forrest, waves clashing against a rocky jetty. What Shiloh forced himself to speak during times of high stress such as these was the language of the dreamworld in which he so often relished. So many of those around him forgot about the importance of the gesture, the symbol, and the memory. It might as well have been a dead language in the society he lived in during this day and age, those within it often forgetting that it even existed. But Mr. Brown had to be smarter than that, even if he only had the education level of a highschool graduate.
