Blatteration; senseless roar. From Latin, blatteratio.
Her bedroom remains empty, lonely in the stillness of days. The limp curtains are drawn, proof against the sunrise, filtering time’s passage into a muted, nostalgic glow. There was love here once, and dreams and laughter; there were secrets, but the silly, harmless adolescent kind. What happens when we lose that which is most dear? Everything seems to swell and break, grow dull and faded. We keep to our thoughts, when others reach forward with clumsy, wordless intent. Questions are asked, answers that tremble with inadequacy show their shame in every set of eyes cast downward, offering nothing. Blame is an easy thing and we lash out with high-pitched anguish, seeking to empty the pain by the air in our lungs.
Her bedroom, ringing with the blatterations of her absence, loses its mundane context and transforms into a joyless space littered with the artifacts of a severed life.