MC's Whispers

Whispering Silences

Archive for the tag “silence”

Lost in a horizon

http://wpnature.com/moonlight-horizon-light-stones-clouds-moon-night-beach-wallpaper-with-sky-blue-background/Sometimes there are moments when you have nothing to say. There are people who go through such moments, and others who never experience them at all. The former are often the ones who know that sometimes silence is worth so much more than blabber. And it is often them that get lost in their thoughts, staring out the window into the horizon, allowing their mind to drift.

It is in those moments that you allow your soul to relax, to breathe, to regenerate itself.

Because it is in those moments that you enable the storm inside you to cool down.

On days that begin with sun, then bringing on clouds, rain, storms, thunder, hail, to return to sun, and repeat the cycle; that is when you need to be quiet the most. To take it all in and to admire the forces of nature that more often than not reflect our own emotions.

It is said that unless what you have to say is better than silence, then be quiet. Wouldn’t the world be so much better without all the useless noise pollution? Wouldn’t we all be calmer and more serene rather than the nervous wrecks we have (been forced) to become?

Just think about it for a minute. In silence.

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Say nothing

https://getwallpapersinhd.com/images/big/watch_the_world_go_by-192412.jpgHis grandmother had told him when he was young that “when you don’t know what to say, it is better to say nothing at all”. The same is true when you having nothing to say. You shouldn’t speak for the sake of saying something. That’s just noise.

So he grew up being laconic with his speech. He wanted every word he uttered to count. The people around him often thought he was too introvert; didn’t open up too much. Others saw his silence as apathy or ignorance.

But often it is in the silence that most is said.

He knew the value of placing quality over quantity. And much of that was valid for speech too. He disliked people who would talk for hours about nothing simply to maintain attention drawn onto them. Instead he relished the moments when he would retreat from the world and gaze at it passing by without having to say a word.

It is in those moments that you find yourself. That you realise what you need, what you want, and sometimes what makes you tired or happy.

It is those moments that make you grateful for all you have and for simply being alive.

And it is right after that moment when you don’t know what to say, that your mind is flushed with all the things you wish you had said…

 

Also part of Daily Prompt: Sound

Listen to the silence

http://www.servicespace.org/inc/ckfinder/userfiles/images/dgood/silence-the-mind.jpgCan you do that? Can you hear the words I fear to speak? The ones running through my head. Those that don’t want to be uttered, yet need to be heard?

Can you read through the glow of my eyes? Can you see what I desire for you to comprehend? Can you feel how much I want you to know about everything that is causing a whirlwind inside of me?

Sometimes it is the quietest minds that speak the loudest.

All it takes is the ability and desire to hear them even when they don’t speak a word.

It’s that kind of person you seek when you feel most frail, as fragile as a crisp leaf in a storm.

The person you know you can trust no matter what. The one who will capture your heart as soon as they catch your eye. And the one who will remain there, no matter how much time passes by.

The people who are able to listen to your silence, exactly when you need to say the most.

 

Also part of Daily Prompt: Frail

The Object

Wooden boxThe voice echoed in the room magnifying the emptiness of the space. He could hear the metal in his boots dominating the wooden floor. It made him feel so small, lost in that vast space.

He was captivated by a person whose face he could not see. All he saw was two round black circles where his eyes would be. He knew it was a man because his robust figure betrayed his gender and the sound of his voice was deeper and coarser than any he had ever heard.

The footsteps and the slamming of an apparently very heavy door betrayed that his captivator had left.

Silence fell over the room. Together with the darkness that already lay there, the atmosphere was creepy to say the least.

He could feel his feet chained to the ground and his hands were loosely tied, enough to make things difficult for him.

His eyes begun to become accustomed to the darkness and he saw that the knot that had him bound down could be easily untied with a few tugging moves. But not having your feet free to move around made escaping a bit more tricky.

He looked around, trying to remain ahead of the panic that was rapidly overwhelming him.

There was an object right in front of him. It was within an arm’s reach. A black rectangular box.

He got up and stretched as far as he could, grabbing it tight.

There were markings on it. Faded letters. If you stared hard enough and looked back, they together formed the word “key”.

He had to get the box opened immediately before that voice returned. He banged it with the chains on his legs. But it was useless. A code was required to break open the lock. He looked around. On each of the four walls in the room was a number counting down from “5”. He tried “5,4,3,2”, but the lock did not open. It resisted any other such combination too. He then began randomly placing numbers in the lock, hoping something would click.

It did when the code formed “1,1,1,1”.

Was it that easy?

The box had a key inside. Which opened the chains on his legs. And then the door.

It was too easy.

It was.

Because when he opened the door the voice returned, louder than ever sprouting from a black mask and holding a chainsaw in front of his black eyeholes.

That’s when everything completely blacked out.

And that is when he finally awoke from the coma he was in for three weeks.

He remembered nothing.

Apart from the box with the key.

 

Also part of Daily Prompt: Object

Room to write

writing roomErnest Hemingway had said that “there is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”. That is really all it takes. To let your soul pour out at your fingertips. To allow your emotions to surface and manifest themselves into words, into stories, into prose on paper.

All you need to do is allow yourself to breathe and feel.

To feel every single thing that is cornered in your psyche. To be able to sit in silence and type. (Or write with a pen or pencil if you are more traditional).

What you really need though is room. Like Virginia Wolf said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write”. Money, for the obvious reasons that you need to be able to afford just sitting there typing, and room because you need the space to simply be. To accept the feelings that are overwhelming you, that are weighing down on your shoulders. To permit them to flood out of your heart like a torrent during flood season.

To have the room to be able to lock yourself into. To sit on a big executive chair that wraps around your back and spine like a comforting bear and reassures you that everything will be fine. Just type. Just go on and say whatever is on your mind.

The key in being able to write is being able to accept that the words you form are a small part of your soul breaking away from inside of you. It is allowing yourself to be vulnerable and not minding that the world is authorized a glimpse at your pain. All sad people write. It is an outlet for the pain. Sylvia Plath was told that after rain everyone suddenly is flooded with literary inspiration. The point, however, is how true, how deep, how emotional, how exposed you can get.

Because think of the person who will read. They will want to be able to feel precisely that emotion. The pain, the anguish, the heartbeat, the torment, the painstaking ordeal. We all want the assurance that we are not alone in whatever it is we are going through. That is primarily why we read. That, and to get away from it all. From our own troubles into another world.

Imagine being able to do that through reading.

Now think of the power you could possess if you could write too.

If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. Or better yet, date a girl who writes.” ―Rosemarie Urquico

Also part of Daily Prompt: Writing Room

Take back the night

Lone wolf

 

 

 

 

 

The silence of a room feels so much louder
When you’re not here.
Everything seem so much darker
without you near.

In every picture we had
we used to smile
so widely
so truly
so fully.

We’ll never know what happened.
What changed.
What never did.

But now…
Where do we go from here?
how can it all go on
without the fire of passion
to fight away the fear?

How easy it easy to melt away,
like ice in a summer heat.
To long for air or water,
like love is the only thing you need.

What are you waiting for?
What is it that you need?
When will life ever be complete?
Or just a bit like you’ve always dreamed?

So, what are you waiting for?
Get up, move, even if you fall.
Don’t you want to live and be free?
Don’t you want to accomplish at least one dream?

The time will never be right.
Nor the location or the night.
There never was a plan.
Just a lot of faith.

All you have to do is take a leap
and believe you can fly.

 

Also part of Daily Prompt: Baggage Check

Between a couch and a wild place

The leather couch used to squeak whenever he would slide down onto it. It didn’t anymore. You could even feel the small dent in the middle caused by all those people it had accommodated over the years. He could proudly or shamefully (it depends how you saw it) proclaim that he had grown up right there on that brown leather couch. In that down town office that was as modern as could be, with white walls that were repainted every five years and modern, funky furniture that invited the waiting patients and offered the illusion that they would take their troubles away.

Relax”.

That was the first word he heard every time he sat on that couch. It was Mr. Waterman’s job, though, to say so. He needed his patients calm so that they could pour out their soul to him during the next hour and he could attempt to provide some solution, consolation or advice to their problems. And these were many and varied. But over the years he had heard a lot. Just not from one particular patient. This one had proven to be an especially difficult case.

Brandon would simply refuse to speak out, to tell the professional sitting across him what troubled his mind, what made his heart ache, where his eyes wandered when he stared at the horizon out of the window. Whatever the exhortations or appeals Mr Waterman would use, discreetly or not, Brandon did not want to speak. He simply sufficed to say that he had nothing to say. Mr Waterman even tried to entice him with milkshakes and chocolate, but that didn’t work even when he was a young child, let alone now.

After around twenty years of therapy, Brandon still had nothing to say. Yet, he was as confused and tormented inside as he had always been. A storm was still brewing inside of him. It was just silent to the outer world.

Brandon was a child that kept to himself. He became quite the introvert as a young man, although he loved to socialize and go out with friends. But when he returned home, he liked to stay in his room doing his own thing, whatever that was – reading a book, listening to music, surfing the web. And just like he disturbed no one, he himself did not like to be disturbed. His upper class parents believed he was a troubled child. They described him as “emotionally unavailable” and “awkward” and pleaded Mr Waterman to “fix him”. So Brandon grew up in the office of a shrink. Only none of them knew about it.

Mr Waterman watched Brandon grow from a quiet boy into an unsuccessful rebel, into an elegant and well-educated young man. From the few things Brandon had uttered in his office, the professional understood that the boy felt misunderstood, that no one could comprehend what he felt or thought and that is why he preferred to stay silent. So the hours were spent talking about culture, the news, and well, anything other than himself. The latest thing that made Brandon’s eyes gleam with excitement was a photo book of the most amazing places in the world that should be visited. The first-page inscription –a quote by William G.T. Shedd: “A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for” – was what mostly inspired his heart to sing. But Mr Waterman knew that the storm would finally break out; he could see it the young man’s eyes, his gaze was looking further than meets the eye. It was obvious that he was in search of something out there that was not immediately visible.

And the storm arrived.

It came in the form of a hand-written letter and a tidied-up room.

I run because I no longer want to hide.
Because there is so much more out there to explore.
Because I want to move on with my life and do something substantial.
Because I feel I cannot reach my true potential if I
am locked down here, without facing any real challenges or the endless possibilities that seem to be out there.
Because I want to be somewhere where people know me for me and not because of who I know.
Because I want to be heard without needing to yell and fight.
Because I want to rediscover the joy of Fridays and looking forward to the weekend.
Because I want to live and see places and not just hear about them from other people’s past experiences.
Because I want to find a house that is mine from the start, that I decorate and organise to fit my needs.
Because it is part of growing up and independence is a powerful thing to have.
Because I don’t want to waste time anymore, waiting.
Because I want to finally find and taste at least one happy ending.
I run because I am not running. I simply want to live.

What life sounds like

football-stadium-and-football-loving-people-or-player-in-spain1What does a roar sound like?

They tell me that when a footballer scores, the crowd “roars”. I don’t know what that sounds like.

All I see is people jumping up and down in the stands, with their faces mutating from the strain of excitement. They seem to be living every moment as if their life depends on that single goal. And when something goes wrong, you can see the blood gushing to their face, painting it red with anger.

They all seem to be yelling something at every instance, but I don’t know what it is.

I don’t like watching football. Everyone tells me that I am missing out from all the fun if no screaming is involved. But it is not my fault.

It is even worse when I go to a concert. Well, actually, when they drag me there and I just stare at the stage at people jumping up and down in what appears to be a contest of who will wear less clothes.

But I can’t hear anything.

I was born like this. Deaf.

I don’t know what a singing bird sounds like. Or what my parents’ voices are like.

I have never heard the crack of a biscuit, or the ruffling of leaves. Neither the sound of pages turning, or the beating of a heart. Nor the noise a jumping car makes, or the swish of waves.

I don’t know what music is. Or what it means to yell at the top of your voice to release the tension.

I never experienced the thrill of a good shout.

And I will never know what it means to roar like a lion when you are mad. Or sob and squeak like an infant when you are sad.

I wish I could hear a voice. Even an angry one. Just hear something.

I am living in a silent world. And the only thing I can hear is the sound of my heart breaking from it.

In the silence of a word

photo silence

 

 

 

 

 
It is said that the power of words lies not in what is said but what is left untold.
In what lies in the depths of your soul,
What torments you,
What in the night tosses and turns you.

In the thoughts that come to mind when you sit alone
In silence.

In the images that skim your thoughts
That make you laugh at a single memory
At the remembrance of a phrase,
A gesture,
A face.

In the force of love that torrents in your heart
In the acts that make you fall even deeper
In the love that that very one shows
At the most unexpected of times
In the sweetest ways.

In the serenity that overwhelms your being.
In the calmness that ripples over your psyche.
In the tranquility that grips your presence.
In the silence of all the things you need not utter.

 

Also part of Weekly Writing Challenge: The Sound of Silence

Silence in the Metro

303366_underground_-subway_-metro_-station_2048x1536_(www.GdeFon.ru)The sun had already slit under the horizon as Lisa entered the metro station. This was one of the recently renovated stations and its marble walls were still shining white. People were rushing to arrive at the platforms, perhaps even catch the metro that would swing by at that very moment, instead of having to wait that extra 3-4 minutes.

There was plenty of noise, both from the trains arriving and departing and from the people, young and old, speaking to each other, to their phones, to anyone in general.

Lisa got off five stops further down. It was a trip that lasted less than ten minutes. And it didn’t seem any longer.

But there was something strange in that very moment she set her foot off the metro wagon. As if there was an eerie atmosphere, sending chills down her spine and causing her to shiver. It felt as if the whole world around her was moving in slow motion. There were so many people on that platform, queuing at the escalator that would lead them up to the exit above and to the square outside. No-one would take the adjacent stairs. “Typical of how comfortable our lives have become,” thought Lisa, as she observed the people surrounding her. Students, teens, middle-aged, elderly, there were people of all ages, forms, sizes and styles. But there was one weird thing everyone had in common.

No-one was talking.

There was absolute silence in that underground metro station.

The only thing heard was the faint footsteps from women’s heels, if there were any. But there was no noise. Nothing like what she had left five stations earlier. It was as if everyone was expecting something to happen. Not something good. As if at any moment now you would expect a rifle to sound. Running. Voices. Screams. Something. Something that would indicate there was still life down there.

Lisa felt as if she was being watched. She could even see herself from the back, as though she was part of a film noir. And she was the one in the red dress. The one sticking out from the crowd. The one targeted.

The escalator ride to the top seemed to take longer than the metro ride to that station. But at last she arrived.

Noise returned to her ears. The corridors leading to the square outside were bustling with life, instantly crumpling all conspiracy theories that had formed in her head.

“There you are!” shouted Francine as she grabbed Lisa’s arm and gave her a hug. “Wanna go to those cafés on the hill for a drink?”

“Yes. Please. Let’s!” breathed Lisa as her heartbeat returned to its normal rhythms.

 

Also part of  Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone

Also part of Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion

Also part of Daily Prompt: Safety First

Also part of Daily Prompt: Close Call

Also part of NaBloPoMo (November 2013)

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