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.