The silence
It’s so quiet in here that the only sounds are the soft tap of flies hitting the clean glass window from outside. It is a strange thing to listen to too closely; the thought of their soft little bodies unexpectedly crashing against the invisible barrier of glass. There are so many windows in this room that the longer I’m here the more rhythmic the sound becomes until it’s just part of the Silence. And I wonder in those days of blood how similar the sound must have become to the soldiers who heard the sounds of thousands dying under the fire of their guns and the slice of their machetes. After the first dozen or two wouldn’t it become just as common, just as muted? From up high we all just look like ants anyway, right? How much more important is the ant to the fly?
And it’s these thoughts that keep me from sitting in the Silence too long lest I forget how to hear.
Comments on “The silence”:
This is really great. I like that it is quite thoughtful and profound but with a very light and accessible feeling to it. A very deep thought that isn't bogged down by philosophical statements. I especially like (I don't know if this was intentional... but I feel like it must have been and the author should pretend it was if not :P) but the last line brings to mind Remembrance day and the poem Flanders Fields (...lest we forget...) and to someone who is familiar with that part of Canadian History it brings a lot to mind without having to say much! Good writing I miss you all!