My name's Chris. When I was once asked to pick three words to describe myself,
I wrote need more words, which got me into a great deal of trouble.
silence n. \ˈsī-lən(t)s\
Silence grows like a vine. It curls around my legs when my attentions are drawn elsewhere. And there are so many things to be distracted with. The world is a toybox, seen in the right light. Some of its contents are worthwhile, like the glint of a woman's glasses across a dinner table, or the rhythm of a song I've never heard before, but I love more and more with each note. Others not. The distinction is impossible to make except in the lacuna of Sunday night, reading idly, empty inbox, no calls, nothing to do but wait for the week to resume.
And silence is poisonous. Each succeeding moment makes me weigh my thoughts more and more precisely. In Proverbs it is written: "Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise." You don't have to live very long to learn how foolish you are, and not much longer than that to know you'll always will be so. It is the safe bet to keep quiet. But thoughts left caged in my head grow treasonous, form alliances against me, convince me to leap off bridges and sell my heart to a scrap metal dealer. A river needs an ocean. I need to write.
But silence, like death, is necessary.
And silence is poisonous. Each succeeding moment makes me weigh my thoughts more and more precisely. In Proverbs it is written: "Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise." You don't have to live very long to learn how foolish you are, and not much longer than that to know you'll always will be so. It is the safe bet to keep quiet. But thoughts left caged in my head grow treasonous, form alliances against me, convince me to leap off bridges and sell my heart to a scrap metal dealer. A river needs an ocean. I need to write.
But silence, like death, is necessary.
