CAN YOU HEAR loneliness?
I ask myself that same question again. If it were loud enough, would loneliness be a roar so deafening that you couldn’t hear anything else around you? Would it drown out every other sound on the Earth? Would it be so painful in your ears that you would have to clamp both hands over them to block it out? Or like a black hole does with light, would its discord fall into something from which noise can never escape?
Sometimes a scene is impossible to describe by what is there and can only be described by what is no longer there. And if I were pressed to describe the scene surrounding us now, only one word comes to mind: loneliness. The loneliness of the nothing that swallows us up with each step we take in this eternal, barren countryside.
I close my mind off completely to the unstructured inputs from the outside world and lose myself deep in my thoughts.
I’m not certain where we’re going or what we’ll find when we get there. And I don’t know who might be there, or if the three of us will be swallowed up and lost in the pandemonium of the city. But what I do know for sure: with each step I take through this loneliness, I’m moving further away from the pain of my past and closer to a new beginning.
At some time during the morning, the tedious terrain yields to an endless run of rolling hills, which spring up around us, almost unnoticed. Something different, something irregular awakens me from my Ganzfeld-like state as a carpet of mighty wind turbines comes at us from across the landscape. Spread out as far as the eye can see. Like a million white monuments, all laid out in a network of equally spaced rows and columns. Here and there, the illusion of their perfect placement is spoiled by a toppled turbine, lying in pieces on the ground. The air sits hot and still around us, and I can feel a strange sense of inertia as I look over this quiet, foreboding graveyard.
My curiosity steers me over to a turbine tower, laid out in the field closest to us, where I climb over the fallen giant’s carcass. On the nacelle, I grab the anemometer and spin it. I move the vane from left to right, then to the left again.
“The control sensors are still in perfect working order,” I say, calling out to the helpful pair. When I look around at the turbines still standing erect, I realize they’re all aligned in the same direction. “It’s like all the turbines stopped rotating at the same instant. As though the wind was suddenly switched off one day, and never switched back on.”
But the two of them stand there, without any expressions, like two obtuse monuments themselves. Sometimes when I look at them, they seem lively, almost engaging, but at times like now, all I see are two impersonations of what must have once been viable people. And disappointed in their lack of presence, I can only shake my head.
Entropy by Michael McGinty