The silence in the verbal, physical sense is unbearable.
That maybe one of the reason I write at all. To complete myself within me, but also to fill up that silence, that empty space, with something that represents an aspect of, a part of me.
It isn’t easy to fill up a space that is so big and open, and never ending. The search for that something is always lurking behind everything and waiting to come out and shout at you for not possessing it at all.
I get scared of that voice so I try to fill it up with so many things that are like fragments of a shattered glass. I walk through the city staring at people and trying hard to think about something, about their lives and where they are headed, what they do for a living, what they might be thinking, and the random details of it all. when in fact I can’t think anything at all other than the fact that I am fearing the empty space.
The beat ringing in my ears as I walk through the crowd is a reassurance that I am not empty, blank, that there is a sound pushing me through, and I can keep walking without stopping at weird moments, stare at people or try to think about people thinking about something.
Instead, I listen to the sound and the beat in synch with my footstep, the wind running above and in between your fingers, the sun a little bright or the sky too dark with thick clouds.
That silence is still there, still here, but I’m writing and listening and breathing, and I concentrate only on those things, only.