The heat of summer casts a grey vapor over everything the sky touches and the moon hangs from the lowest cloud. Dawn is upon us but the neighbors are asleep, grey vapor tucking them into their cloudy dreams, into my pitch black nightmares.
Silence descends, engulfs, the thick muddled space between night and day.
to the murmur of heating vents running wild, to their shudder when they’re forced to stop
to the whirring of the fan above and the flutter of the newspaper’s pages it disturbs
to the stirring of stimuli, the burst of electricity in a synaptic connection
to howling tires on an empty highway and the creak of floorboards when I shift my legs
to the slow and steady drip of the coffee pot
to the ripping and connecting and patching and growing of ideas, the cause and the effect
to the tap-tap-tapping of the tree branch against the windowpane
to the chirping cricket stuck in the garage
to the crack of metal against metal as a zipper connects with the dryer’s cylindrical frame
to the pounding of thought against skull, the pleading of initiative over ego
to the constrictions between notion and voice
to the choking of a thought, the suffocation of an idea
to the steady, complacent silence that grasps the mind
The most silent of silences are filled with noise: dripping water, buzzing electricity, stifled points of view. These silences – these stifling silences – are threatening, menacing even.
What does your silence sound like?
-M. Ray Hall