You like silence. When you sit in silence, you feel something blossom in your stomach and prickle at the bottom of your feet. It’s the thrilling of waiting on a dark stage for the curtains to rise.

But this is another silence. There is noise all around you, and there is noise all in you, and you can’t bring your seething angers or teeming anxiety beyond your lips. You press them against the roof of your mouth with your tongue, and you swallow them, but they lodge in your throat like a stone.

Maybe you try and think of something pleasing to say, something comfortable and safe. Finding nothing, your face disfigures with the effort, and your eyebrows knit together. You’re wailing with mind and soul, but the body stays silent.

Why can’t you say anything? 

You’re afraid you won’t be heard.

You’re afraid the thoughts on the tip of your tongue will be turned to a black smear across your face.

You’re afraid the things you think, see, and touch are inexplicably illusions.

The irony humbles you. How often did you tell yourself you would speak?

Photo Credit: Jason Rosewell