Observation #43: Quiet

I hadn't noticed it until now, but there is something oddly wonderful about quiet.

Not silence, no. Silence implies that there is an absence of something. That thick pall of uncomfortable weight that lies over your heart when your mind grows too riddled and your body too sedate.

But the quiet...it is lovely. An overwhelming sensation of peace. Of finality. Of the ability to--for once in your life--hear your heartbeat. Feel your breath. Kiss darkness.

It is a death, but of the kindest sort. The type that has the possibility of return, but does not force it. The type that leaves the earth, but haunts the senses. The kind that halts all pain and suffering and feeling, but does not leave remorse.

Why would Sylvia make love to an oven when she could have quiet instead? Perhaps that's what she meant by "shutting up."