From the grain of sand the silence started out as it expanded to encompass our skies above. From within our clasped hands it rose in a fume higher above our heads, spilt over the sides and now set itself down like a snow globe glass. We are but miniatures trapped in the silent snowstorm now. Words stopped doing us good, the lack of them now is supposed to cure us. The fading echoes of our raised voices persistently linger on and fill the space around us, but with enough patience we can wait them out. We can let all sounds die and examine emotions for their substance, not their resonance. As long as no one shakes our snow globe, we still have time.
I know the symphony of street noise, Damien Rice and the coffee maker soothes you, but it makes you deaf to everything that is originally you. You cannot tell anymore who mothered the thoughts you give birth to, when your days are filled with input. And neither can
Can we stand to stare at each other naked, no explanations, variations, denials or apologies? Can you hear what I don’t say and see me when I don’t move at all?
Slowly now the silence mollifies us, we become tranquil and defiantly set on our mutual muteness. We cling to it as the last resort to clarify our communication. The stillness creeps into the cracks and gaps we left and fills them up, completing the structure, solidifying the brittle glass above our heads and leaving no room to move. Careful now, breathe in too deep and you may suffocate us both!
Our hush-filled snow globe is in constant danger of shattering, we can only burke outside sounds for so long. So we eagerly listen to the nothingness while it still exists and it hones all our senses and straightens out our souls. Quiescence comes over us, we rest within our snow globe utopia. If the world was fair it would let us be, but its incessant audio track will find its way back into our ears soon enough.
That first new uttered sound we intently await is already weighty with expectation, because it will be formed by unbiased hearts and minds cleansed of foreign imprints. Our words will finally have meaning beyond sense. When our shattered snow globe gives us back air, space and noise, we will see if we still want to breathe in unison, walk in step and talk in tune.