Lonely Sound is an imaginary body of water that lives in the recesses of my mind.
It’s a desolate place. The sun never quite breaks through the cloud cover and it’s only ever warm and damp or damp and chill.
Looking out over the sound is a sad old cabin with a half-collapsed porch. It’s rotting from the outside in and it’s full of empty rooms that no one could be bothered to care for. The air is thick with melancholy and you wouldn’t want to be stuck there.
I started believing in Lonely Sound a long time ago, before I knew its name. Then I read about a place called Doubtful Sound in New Zealand and it gave me such a weird, creepy feeling – like I knew it somewhere in my memory.
Lonely Sound isn’t even a sad place. It’s blank. You might feel sad reading about it but it’s worse than that; it’s depression and the kind of hunger that exists when you’re past wanting to eat. It’s where you go when you’ve done all the crying and you’re left stoney and still.
I find Lonely Sound comforting. I can go there when I need to feel more than what my life is. Do you keep a memory or an idea that helps you feel pain? Lonely Sound is my place for that. My unhappy place.