Shhhhhh....

Silence, they say, is golden.

Moments of wordlessness often say a lot than the number of possible words they can accomodate. But silences need to be heard, or else they are passed off as voids that leave gaping holes in the puzzles of life. They also need to be understood, for the unspoken is generally more powerful and honest than anything that's a slave of words. But needs are inversely proportional to ease and availabilty. Some eerie silences beg to die in the arms of words themselves, for the honesty they carry in their womb is far too great to be easily and correctly comprehended, and far too important to be left to die without acknowledgement. How I wish all silences were understandable, together with an assurance that the understanding reached is correct.

Sometimes I need silences to be able to talk to myself. Faint whimpers of the "right" voice are barely audible when commotion fills the inside. Sometimes everybody also needs silences within themselves to be able to really talk. The catch is, can everybody listen?Perhaps not. Perhaps they should not. Not always.

Some silences are beautiful. Even some of those really eerie ones. Even some of those that are full of nervousness and fears, anxiety and uncertainty. Some of them are full of love, some of honesty, and some of trust. And then there are the ugly silences. That have none of these three. That have anger or hurt, jealousy or malice, me or you, but never us.

But the toughest are the broken silences, where the connection is never quite totally there, atleast not trustworthily so. Silences of doubt and fear, of loss and defeat, that nobody understands, and nobody tries to understand. Then I wish somebody would come and break the silence, or else it die out immediately by itself, even if in frustrated screams, because wording a silence always reduces it's power, and potency. When this potency is the potency to harm, in larger interests, it's better broken. Sadly enough not everybody realises that. Sometimes I want to hear, spelt out, everything I am presumed to understand, and everything that stays unspoken in silences. Sometimes I want you to tell me all, because 'nothing at all's are sometimes the best only in an ideal world, and I do not always have the strength to get lost in guessing silences. Sometimes, I get exhausted. Sometimes I want to listen to words and not silences, sometimes I hate myself for wanting that much.

Sharing things, by virtue of increase in surface area, reduces their ability to hurt deep. Sadly enough the more voluminous the hurt, the greater the activation energy, the lesser the ease of sharing it, the greater the need to do so, and the more difficult it is to find a listener. It is a vicious cycle. But I don't want to get caught in it. Will somebody listen, and understand?

Silence, they say, is golden. Atleast sometimes though, I'd rather not be so greedy.