void of an echo

:: void of an echo ::

After the torrential of emotions, all there is, all there really is - is a quiet disquiet. The human psyche seem to be a paraphase of nature - the calm before the storm, and the quiet after; the bleakness of the night that would eventually break into dawn; the sweep of a hurricane that can level everything in its wake; the hungry ferocity of an earthquake that is blithe and blind in its destruction.

And so are we. I am quiet now; everyday is a requiem of an old life. But I'm not at peace. It's like the void of an echo - a vacuum but not quite, where the reverberations of a festering ache continues its rhythm, drumming and droning into a swan song.

I'm sick of my own whinging, and I'm tired of being tired.