I want it to stop for a while. A fucking long while. I don’t want to be deaf, I just want to be afforded the luxury of turning it off. I want to be able to cultivate the habit of silence, and be allowed to choose the time and the place for the intrusion of sound.
And to kick the addiction of distraction.
There has to be a way to quiet the voices and quell the interference that has burrowed into that place between my ears and my soul, where the notice of deep calling out to deep must dwell, and where the allowance of unhindered contemplation… where the allowance of… where…
FUCK! Make it STOP!
This is my day. Everyday. Multiple times a day, like the feigned multiple orgasms of a well-compensated prostitute. Hollow, meaningless, empty sounds that, if umbilicaled to a meaningful source, might bring joy or great pleasure. Or possibly just 10 seconds of a throw-away happy. But these escapes are filled with the unwelcome familiarity… the rumble… the droning hum… of 10 million pissed-off bees. Songs, voices, and words. The goddamnedest, most annoying spew of words. Words that will not, cannot, and always refuse to, stop.
Until that moment when life navigates you into the omniscient, perfectly well-rounded ass-end of time and space, when a singularly unplanned bookmark splits the page of revelation in the place where the sun ain’t never shone before. And you realize, for the first and only time in your querulous excuse for a life lived beneath the expectations of everyone, especially yourself, that the silence…
© 2013 Bill Friday