May 11, 1999

Penetrating the Silence

I spend a lot of time awake at night, listening to abject silence. Silence leaves an unfortunate burden on a person, for we feel the need to always mask it. Sometimes, I just try to think, hoping some line of thought will generate some noise. Maybe I tell a story to myself.

These don't always work, so I listen for noise in the silence. It's there. If you begin to listen for it, you'll begin to hear its rhythmic beats. Sometimes it's like a heartbeat, but not your own. You hear the gentle metronomic throb of the world. Then it grows. You hear more noise. You don't make out the words, but you hear people's complaints, wishes, shrieks of terror from both past and present. The cries of the Holocaust intermingle with the cries of a five year-old for the ice cream man. It's a murmur like a radio tuned just off of a station.

None of these sounds are oscillations in the atmosphere, only figments in my head. Yet, they prove a basic truth. There is no such thing as silence; there is no escape. We, strangers and lovers, are always connected by a noisy silence.