Beautiful Silence

Only recently have I garnered a gentler insight: I, in all my glory, am unbearably annoying.
Even if painted by silence, locked alone in a room, I would still move my mouth to speak.

I talk too much. I often sing aloud.

I am—though against my will—a pest to my own deliberation.

For a while, I have been increasingly aware that I tend to laugh and mumble—whisper small conversations that either make sense or none at all. Since middle school, I was the talker, mostly among myself. But I don’t think I ever stopped to think just how vexing that is. Granted, when done around others, it’s usually around people I find comfort in—my closest family. But still, I wonder how insufferable, to them, I’ve been.

Could you imagine sitting in silence, pondering against the serenity, making the muted air a calming presence of your own—just for your solitude to be silenced itself? By noise, alone? A voice no more beautiful than a ship sinking below still waters.

When salvaged from the wreckage, it is no less quiet. It is more piercing, more distracting. This time, it is a cavern lit briefly with a match. Softly chaotic, almost catastrophic.

When you burden someone you love—slice away a piece of life with just a dull butter knife—wouldn’t their blood still drip the same crimson? Wouldn’t you still be taking? Disrupting? Love does not overbear pain, and their silence doesn’t mean they’re surviving in peace to my lack of.