There exists a place of words and emotions just below the surface of our world.

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Not a plane of hot emotion, but deep, a deep burning chasm.

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There are no friends here, no true friends.

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Their smiles fade and their words turn on you as you step into the harsh light of reality.

 

Those same words sit in the dark corner of all our minds, waiting for the smallest breach.

 

The words never end; The Hall never dissipates, only flickers when those who keep it are challenged for their cruel despotism over emotion.

 

There is no happiness here, only a satisfaction in your own inclusion. 

 

When the axe of this place turns its edge to your own heart, that is when the truth will come, cutting deeper than any macabre machination of man.  

 

There is no help here, no reprieve. 

 

We all travel to this place, walking The Hall if just for a moment. 

 

Those of better conviction flee, never turning, in fear of becoming the salt that ruins as quickly as it preserves. 

 

Their honesty shines like a firefly in the pitch of night, quiet flashes, quickly smothered.

 

Those who are weak freeze, fuel sources for that endless belly laying curled under the table at every gathering.

 

They find comfort at their arrival, but will walk the shore alone, in the end.

 

Then, there are those who drive the force, care for the beast, keep The Hall. 

 

Their entrance into The Hall is a homecoming, their emergence into their true selves.

 

These are beings who do not need The Hall, for they carry it with them wherever they go. 

 

There are those who are nothing without their whispers, and their Hall is nothing without them. 

 

However, there comes a day for all keepers, when their words will fail them, and they must fall silent, receding to the cold and desolate corners of existence.

 

They will lay alone, in the dirt, defeated, painfully nostalgic. 

 

Pay no mind, however, to their calls. 

 

For behind every piteous plea uttered, behind every cry of self-pity, lays hidden an invitation to the Hall of Whispers.