The Quiet

Sometimes I crave the quiet. Not the loud quiet of an empty room, but the absence of my voice (of your voice). It’s the midway at the fair, walking through the dirt as children scream and race past you; as rides flash their lights and whir seemingly out of control all while Pearl Jam’s “Black” plays. It’s that, and it’s more than that. It’s wishing someone would just stop talking long enough so you can hear everything else. So you can sense everything else.

It’s those nights–those days–way back when with only the fan and only the blankets and only the music. When you didn’t have to say anything.

It’s almost a sense of trust within yourself–if everything is quiet, then everything will be okay.

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