I’ve always wanted to be the person who is okay with silences. I want to listen to the absence of noise and feel comforted by it. This has the most value when two people may listen to the silence together and not feel obligated to discomfort. These bangings and vibrations beneath my feet make it sort of difficult to hear my silence. Like selfishly watching the television wanting to hear and absorb “my stories.”

“Man, shut the fuck up, I’m listening to ma silences.”

A great metal cylinder that reverberates the roar of a prehistoric monster is being ripped apart by pale glowing teeth downstairs. It must be a fearsome battle to behold.

But I want my silence. I want the quiet rustles and delicate intakes of breath.

A person near me is someone to puzzle over, looking for the external markers of the internal.

But the deep crash of metal that lies down deep being knocked about will startle any stranger, any someone. And they’ll just be a thin strand of unease shocked into existence. No depth until they settle back into the silence.

We are a suspended platform of knowledge over the battleground. The souls of our feet cry out for just one day with the privileges of the hands.

In silence their complaints could be heard, maybe.

In silence you can hear the Earth whisper to herself. She is ancient and her lunacy is majestic.

Papers sliding together. If it was a chorus and there was no corporate who-ha involved it’d be a happy counterpoint to this contemplative silence.

Her socks are green. And he slouches. He has too many pencils and she’s too self-conscious. They’re smiling at each other and I wish I knew why.

Perhaps I can ask the silence.

It must know.

01/15/2012

Author's Note: This is a free-write from my creative writing class. Somehow it formed itself into something coherent.

Posted on 01/15/2012
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