Have you ever wondered why some tragedies are inaudible, why certain people seem always to cry for no apparent reason, or what it means to have lived in the good ole days?
Throughout the night, I’m famished for words because internal quietude raises my skin, demanding I make an effort to avail touch to the apocalypse of external silence.
If I close my eyes real tight, I can hear my mother’s heartbeat from the time I spent in her womb, and if I place my hands over my belly, I can feel the tiny feet that once upon a time, played kick the can with my bladder. If I slow my breathing down to remember the cries of my newborn child, I can feel the warm tingle of let down in my breasts, and the hardening of my nipples. If I walk to the sound stage in the back room of my mind, I can replay the sounds of making love, which flushes my body in warmth, wetness, and aching desire.
In the morning, my world is silent, except for the traffic heard in the distance. I wonder upon drivers and passengers, what their open eyes are listening to, or if like me, they hear silence as they stare through nature and their screens.
I fear we can no longer recognize the sound of man’s cry as we return his smile in the parking lots between food and home. All that is birthed on the page can be so easily justified with a click, but what is birthed into the world is so less deliberately attended to, and more often treated like a final draft, than something our heart has the capability to retouch over and over again, knowing that silence leaves dust that only the sound of Love can wax into the shine of Freedom.