I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company.
-Henry Miller
The dead quiet is so loud I wish I could plug my ears. The diaphanous air would get through, though.
I imagine the sounds of a household-a child running barefoot, a patio door’s swish, keys falling on a hard surface.
The imagined chorus sounds like love.
Ever ask yourself why we say a pocket of silence? Should it be kept for next time, close to the body, laundered by accident but still intact ?
What a shame when Silence gets the last word but cannot produce a single syllable.
If you wake up in silence-eat in silence-dream in silence-bathe in silence, you find that reputation doesn’t sand it down. No, not one bit.
Soon enough you can still hear it when the tv is on and isn’t that some kind of sorcery? Not the love potion # 9 kind of sorcery: the malignant kind.
Park yourself on a bench in New York City and sounds rush over, around and through you. These sounds save people from annihilation by nothingness. Maybe the swirling marijuana smoke gives you a headache but hey, you’re surfing in the sound waves.
