Sounds of Silence

My body vibrated with the bass of the music. Swarms of people invaded every breathing space, and contributed mostly to the claustrophobic environment that surrounded me. Like every club, pulsating music thumped my ears, forged smoke created a murky atmosphere, and the scent of intoxication filled the air. Centering the club, ironically in an outsized circle, natives blended with the rhythm of the melody, as though it were an ancient ritual. They all seemed to participate, once particular harmonious sounds, rung in their ears. I stood alone, and observed in a minute corner I managed to squeeze myself in. I watched, not feeling remotely apart of their extravagant way of embracing life. My mind was in turmoil as the music began, to push my eardrums further and further, towards the edge. Then, I heard nothing.


He looked incredibly gorgeous tonight. High above the ground, his mop of charcoal black hair had been brushed back naturally; with the exception of a single strand, that seemed to find it rather comfortable, to rest on his forehead. Although he was well tanned, he still seemed to have this glowing, reddish-orange, complexion, and these slightly chubby, rosy pink lips. His razor-sharp nose, high cheekbones and sturdy jaw, were chiseled to produce a face of perfection.

Like a member of the round table, he possessed an aura of confidence, strength and courage. As though time lapsed, I suddenly found myself in front of him. The instant our eyes met, through all the ciaos, I fell. Like a skydiver who had just jumped, with arms wide open, I was free falling, at a rapid speed, in this moment of silence. This spilt second was infinite, for we both acknowledged, what we felt inside.

My mind was now in a state of oblivion. Like thick fog on a winter’s night, people encircled him. Each one walked up to him, as though they all were burdened with arthritic knees. Their flush cheeks, moistened with fresh tears. Their eyes, so weary from leaking continuously, had now possessed enough baggage to deceive you of their age. Tissue burns stung their soft skin, and created the impression that their faces obtained more colour than red roses. All I heard was sniffing, and soft whispers of courage. They all came to see him, in his silence. They all came to pay their last respects. So did I.


I sat there as still as him. This bland environment, of just chairs and a box, created so much sorrow. I could see it, in everyone’s weeping eyes. But me, I never cried. I never felt an inch of sorrow. I was completely numb, except, I felt this tiny piece of glass, flowing in my blood stream, secretly tearing me apart as it travels, bit by bit, it ripped at me, making paper-like-cuts in my veins. This intense pain, tore into me, slowly, subtly, all, from deep inside. Soon, my hands shook violently, my stomach churned, and my legs developed the stability of water. This was all caused by a minute chip of glass, that penetrated me, with every heartbeat.


I was calm. I was still. I was home, in my room, my petite place of serenity. I sat on my comfortable bed, and looked at my neatly kept room. Every item in place, books tidily arrange on its shelf, cupboards closed and clean, and my desk and dressing table had been set to precision. This all felt irrelevant to me. I wanted to tear it apart, make it a mess and make it horrible. I needed it to be imperfect. My deafening screams overpowered the silence, until I had no breath in my lungs. No oxygen. He was my oxygen. I hugged my pillow as if it was he, and I cried until my pillow, and I were drenched with my salted water.


I was calm again. Only this time, I felt, like an Easter egg… hollow. No depth, no filling, just empty space. I was so incomplete, like a half-pieced puzzled. Like half of me is vanished into thin air, and I wanted to me again. So bad, it hurt me physically. This soul-draining longing and constant ache inside would be with me forever. I then continued to surprise myself, as even more tears poured, like my shower, out of me. I felt all my energy, all my life, my body and soul, poured out onto my soaked pillow. My pillow, like a true friend, silently absorbed my sorrow, and comforted me as I drifted into a somewhat blissful sleep.



The scenery was magnificent. Pure white snow, capped the endless mountains in the blended, purplish-blue, horizon. I stepped into my new accommodation for the next few months. It was warm inside, and I felt somewhat uplifted as I entered. I watched how all these people, different ones, blacks, whites, but dominantly Chinese, all wore the same clothes. Burned orange, loosely tied around them. All were sitting cross-legged on the floor, with their hands together, and their eyes closed. It’s amazing how comfortable they seemed, all wearing the same cloth, sitting in the same position.


I was greeted by a wide smile, and a humble voice, who directed me to my room, which turned out to be nothing out of this world. It was tiny, and had no basic everyday material, like a dressing table or a big bookshelf or anything I owned before. All that was mine here was a single bed that squeaked, a window with plain, drab, curtains, and a pair of bedside drawers. In fact, the more I observed the more I saw the simplicity in it, but that’s what made it beautiful. Everything here possessed stillness, a silence that’s fore filling. A silence of God, and not a luxury in the world, can buy that.