Silence

For some reason silence bothers me these days. I can't put my finger on why exactly. Not silence just in general, but specifically silence when I'm home alone. That never used to bother me.

I've always loved silence. It probably came from growing up in a house full of people and not having anywhere to go to be alone. My childhood was a cacophony of sounds; the TV, arguments, discussions, music, dogs barking, traffic. That may be all it is actually; traffic. I grew up two blocks from the 5 freeway. There was always traffic, even in the dead of night, on the freeway. And we lived on a busy four lane street as well. So the nights were never silent; not ever, not for a second. The freeway made this constant chorus like sound at night as cars speed along. When I was very young, under five, I thought it the sound of angels singing. Why I thought that I couldn't tell you. How I knew what angels were I couldn't tell you. I wasn't raised with religion, never read the Bible, never went to Sunday school. Why I decided that was what singing angels sounded like I don't know. How I knew what angels were I can't tell you.

And the trains. The train tracks were several blocks beyond the freeway. It was common in the sixties and seventies to hear train whistles at night and to hear the engine sound. I've always thought growing up listening to something traveling that fast and that far through the night did something to you; infused you with a wanderlust of sorts.

So there was never silence, even when no one spoke. There was always background noise. And light too. Not only is the Valley one of the most populous, light polluted places on earth, but there were streetlights every few houses. One shone right in through my bedroom window. And everywhere I lived down there in the flatlands there was noise and light in the dead of night. That's one of the reasons I leave the outside porch lights on here. Total darkness is nice, but it makes it hard to navigate around the bedroom in the dark. More importantly though, it's just too frightening. There, I said it.

I'm still afraid of the dark. I wasn't always. But it's still there, tucked in the back of my brain; this fear. It started after the Northridge earthquake. Again, I was living in the valley where there was always light coming through the window. When the quake began I was thrown out of bed and dove under the computer table next to the bed. I held onto the table as hard as I could with my eyes screwed shut repeating over and over "Please stop, please stop." When the two initial jolts finally did stop I opened my eyes. I thought for a split second I'd somehow become blind. There was a confusion between what I should have seen and the total darkness I was in. It was a shock on top of a shock. There was something about that moment that just buried itself in my brain, that moment of shock when I opened my eyes and was greeted by total darkness. I had a hard time with darkness after that. It was months before I could handle being in the dark, even the quasi darkness that returned to the valley once they got the electricity back on. Whenever there's a quake that fear returns, even if just for a few moments.

But I've never feared silence. And it's not exactly fear now that I feel. Where once silence was full and rich with possibilities and depth, now it just seems to stretch out in front of me somehow barren and empty. It's lonely. Why now I don't know. I feel no more vulnerable than before, no more at the mercy of fate or possibility. It's as if there's no longer anything to listen for in the silence; it's just empty. And that makes no sense to me. I feel like I've lost something, but I don't know what. Did I loose my nerve? Is my strength deserting me? Am I simply tired of being alone? The silence is empty feeling and I can't tell you why.