Sometimes I like to sit in absolute quiet.
There’s always that
mild mild mild
static noise from between my ears,
small small small
creaks from the bed underneath me as I breathe,
soft soft soft
movements of the pen on paper.
I can hear the wind.
It’s like gutless thunder,
cloud that envelops you and moves the trees in a single breath.
If I took this piece of paper outside and let it go,
it’d be lost to the street;
spiralling down the road like a car spinning out of control,
my words lost to the night.
We all have different imaginations.
As I picture my paper flying out of my hands,
I picture my street right now,
in the black.
One orange streetlight and a car parked to the right,
closest to the school,
the road slick after rain,
but you were imagining somewhere completely different.
A different path for the paper to travel.
You hear something else when it’s completely quiet.
Maybe you focus in on the sound of your own breath until you can’t breathe normally anymore.
Maybe you hear the slight hum of a computer,
even though there’s nothing around.
Maybe you’ve never been able to listen to the quiet,
mind going at a million miles an hour,
full of ideas and thoughts and questions,
maybe you never can.
And maybe you were never supposed to.
don't try and listen to the quiet. it listens back.