not all silence is peace...

...and the breaking of such silence, no matter how necessary, cannot always mean grief. or so i thought, or so i'd like to think when apparitions of past silences greet me. sometimes the resemblence is so great, the similar vibrations so strong, i barely manage to separate myself from the concrete past and the unwritten future. when you're facing something that looks familiar, something that brought with it and still inflicts such pain, your first reaction is to freeze--as if motion and speech are the only two facilities which disitinguish us from inanimate, but above all, emotionless objects.

because of this, i could only speak with my mind, eyes, and actions in the doomed hope that someone might hear. i never believed it to be possible, that one could understand hidden thoughts and unspoken words.. so when i imagined i heard someone conversing with me in my own mute language, the possibilities were, unerstandably, limitless. we spoke of nights with no end--the dark clouds rolling swiftly over and past the moonlight like black cats running from headlights and porchlights that pierce their all-encompassing darkness; hiding out in cheap motels and watching the sun set and rise over the same impossible ocean; and catching planes to europe during the off-season, finally settling down in some cottage in southern france. together, we were everything the other needed, wanted, could imagine to be true.

and one day i heard my silence for what it was worth.. hideous, discordant, screaming violently without using a word, it showed me what a frightened little girl i really was and how this world is made for those who are willing to pit their words against the quiet of the wind and how much not only you, but those who are safe from your voice, stand to lose. silence is with me still, sometimes, and everytime i hear it, i wish i were deaf.

...not all silence is peace.