White noise

I collect below here in the steepening shadows, above the sky absent of matter, within the stillness of the air. I am not a shadow for I do not trail another being, nor am I personage, I do not exist in the true sense of the word. Never to be a true interruption, I am simply white noise. The drawing in of breath, the steady pulse, the warmth emitted from my skin; you detect that, but you see nothing more than visceral matters. I fade, swallowed by this bleak existence and one would not know I am here, although you sense the physical space I contain. Like the indistinguishable blur picked up by your subconscious, the echo that did not completely carry to your ears. If they somehow penetrate this barrier, I would remain untouched, spared by the nature of circumstance but sheltered from these travels without destination. For it must pass, and never stay.
I am only a minor function in a system driven by it's own flow, hindered by the hesitation of a single postponed travel. I gather the remembrances allotted, severed from what I would choose to attach to, knowing that roots may never be planted. I am thrown about by the currents, with nothing to leave as a sort of proof I once was here. It is simply riding through this existence, extending attempts to contact, but forever untouched, untouchable.