How can anyone begin to explain the value of silence? Some people can’t stand it. They need to constantly fill up those silent spaces with some kind of noise. Mundane, trivial, unnecessary noise like, “How are you doing?” “The weather seems fine lately.” They don’t mean anything. They are said because nothing else is there to be said and because people feel that something ought to be said. It’s pathetic how people just can’t shut up. What for? If there is nothing to say, why say anything at all? Do they only want to hear the sound of their own voice? Is it a comfort? Do they feel affirmed and alive when they hear themselves talking? If so, then it is the poorest possible affirmation.
People move in the everyday cacophony of daily routine. Familiarity is comfortable; it makes them feel that they belong, or accustomed somehow, adjusted. When people hear the kettle whistling, it’s a signal that means they can have hot morning coffee now. The blaring horns and gnarls and groans of traffic dictate their time-tables; they set their clocks by its habits. The florid choric voices of other people at the work place are not surprising. “Did you hear about so and so?” “I did this and that yesterday, so today I’m going to do this and that.” “Would you believe that he and she were so on and so forth?” If you don’t care to participate, people would end up talking about you. All their noises will now be aimed at your back like so many daggers.
I have sought silence all my life. In fact, every night before I sleep and every morning when I wake I regret being alive to hear all the noises around me. I don’t need nor do I want to be the receptacle of others’ loves, hates, fears, and insecurities. I have plenty of those on my own, thank you very much. The only escape available is sleep, and even in sleep the noises are still there, like ghosts haunting your brightest, most hidden rooms. Is the only solution adaptation? Is there no other, better escape route? I ask people sometimes, if you were to lose one of your five basic senses, what would it be? My answer is immediate and without even thinking I’d say, I’d rather be deaf.
People move in the everyday cacophony of daily routine. Familiarity is comfortable; it makes them feel that they belong, or accustomed somehow, adjusted. When people hear the kettle whistling, it’s a signal that means they can have hot morning coffee now. The blaring horns and gnarls and groans of traffic dictate their time-tables; they set their clocks by its habits. The florid choric voices of other people at the work place are not surprising. “Did you hear about so and so?” “I did this and that yesterday, so today I’m going to do this and that.” “Would you believe that he and she were so on and so forth?” If you don’t care to participate, people would end up talking about you. All their noises will now be aimed at your back like so many daggers.
I have sought silence all my life. In fact, every night before I sleep and every morning when I wake I regret being alive to hear all the noises around me. I don’t need nor do I want to be the receptacle of others’ loves, hates, fears, and insecurities. I have plenty of those on my own, thank you very much. The only escape available is sleep, and even in sleep the noises are still there, like ghosts haunting your brightest, most hidden rooms. Is the only solution adaptation? Is there no other, better escape route? I ask people sometimes, if you were to lose one of your five basic senses, what would it be? My answer is immediate and without even thinking I’d say, I’d rather be deaf.
(posted elsewhere 17 Jan 2006)
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