Saturday, February 7, 2009

as afternoon drips into evening

I've been craving silence for so long. In it, everything is sweeter, like the warmth of steeped tea after a spoonful of sugar.

I can finally hear the way my fingers rapidly hit the laptop keys; the rhythm my hands have created without my permission, but with my full and undivided pleasure.

My bracelets sing the most relaxing song as they clank against one another, and against the countertop; creating a concordant melody with the yellowed silver Oneida and the darkened silver of my rings tapping against each other in friendly competition.

I can hear the clicking of the house clocks, slow and calming; the bark of a dog reminds me that civilization is not far, but just far enough away from where I am.

The lack of the television's hum is a welcomed void--in it, time oozes by without my recognition: seconds merge into minutes, which fade into hours when the brilliant Florida sun lulls me into a state of comfort; a familiar yet not-often-reached state of nirvana when my eyelids quickly drop a few pages further into that Toni Morrison.

Suddenly, I awake, as if shaken by an invisible hand--no person has disturbed my slumber, and all doors remain shut to my silence. The drooping February sunset has awakened me; my body tells me to re-position myself, to catch every ray I can, as though I will never see it again.

Feverishly, I write against the loss of the sun behind the gray purple clouds, and as the sounds of approaching cars threaten my silence. With each engine noise I tense--and with each passing vehicle, I relax, curving my shoulders back into their poor-yet-comfortable writing posture.

The house snaps with age, the way my father's knees sound off when he walks up and down the hallway. The lack of noise that once frightened me now enlightens me; leaving me with nothing to do but listen to thoughts spoken in my voice; to taste the delicious ferocity of my memories--resting my head on his shoulder while we watched ducks float on a lake; holding hands while walking near houses in which I wish we were making love.

In this silence, I am blessed. My heart feels prone to burst as the words spill from my fingertips, as if from divine intervention; from a place way beyond anywhere I could ever dream or imagine or explain to even you.

I reclaim the old friend of solitude I once abandoned for cheaper exploits--the drone of an unwatched television; the sound of voices I wanted not to hear; the smacking of bodies hitting one another in lascivious angst. I hold my hand out to solitude and invite him into my space with open arms and a grin starting in the right corner of my smile.

The sun is gone behind clouds and home; tinting the remainder of the sky with pinks, oranges, and purple. I sit in the spreading darkness of a quiet room, wishing for nothing more than this moment spent with the sound of silence.

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