I have feared silence since as far back as I can recall. Not REAL silence. I do not think I have ever witnessed true silence. The silence that I fear is noisy silence, where everything that usually goes unheard echoes sharply.
In the dead of night, when the TV is on standby and everybody else at home is deep in dreams, this room seems to awaken. Unfamiliar sounds make my muscles tense and my nerves twitch, and I feel exposed to something that I do not understand.
This realm of silence fuels my thoughts into echolalia and words chant in rhythm to my breaths, forming melodies of repetition and annoyance.
Within this paradox of silence, restless with paranoia and agitation, I find solace with ink and paper. It helps to release unease, distracting my attention from reality.
Writing diminishes my fears and mutes my awareness of the shrill sounds of stillness….
Without it, I am afraid.
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