Ticho
Silence
Guess your dreams always end
They don’t rise up, just descent
But I don’t care anymore
I’ve lost the will to want more
I’m not afraid, not at all
I watch them all as they fall.
(Joy Division)
I guess I’m beginning to hate silence. Silence
means peace. Peace means contemplating, at least for me. And to contemplate is
fine unless you are past one particular point; then your own thinking becomes a
purgatory. There is a step in thinking, which, once taken, leaves no way back
and determines your life forever. But crying for help has neither any
significance by that time nor is there will left for it. Yet I claim that it’s
better to know and to be sore than not to know. Always.
I’m convinced that people have a basic instinct
keeping them from thinking too much since those who did so were driven crazy.
Only men with the instinct survived and we are their successors, we’re
descendants of rather insane, blind people, who laugh at absurdity. Laughter is
a little victory over meaninglessness and when it stops, it leaves strange
exhaustion. And deafening silence, so resembling to passivity, fatalism and
emptiness. Maybe that’s why people like making noise. They need to feel their
head tremble with the sound and let no room for their absurdity. Poor fools. If
one doesn’t know something, the lack of knowledge doesn’t change the fact that
it does exist.
Silence is thinking, thinking is destruction.
Is to think to develop? If it is, it is somewhat funny for the development is a
silent destruction. Until now destruction has been noisy. However, the noise
has always been “outside” ourselves. The destruction hasn’t plagued the
destructor; noise hasn’t ever really bothered us because it is a sound of damage
we do to our surroundings.
On the contrary, silence is a sound of
destruction inside of myself. Possibly some young people make riots just to outvoice the unbearable silence of their own thoughts. They fight their
do-not-think instinct and the frustration squeezes out of them in waves of
purifying noise. In fact revolt is a sister of silence. To defy seems to be the
only possibility besides committing suicide for some. But for many of them
silence converts to a welcome tranquillity as they age. They stop doubting and
settle in the way every “right citizen” should. That’s the instinct again. It
convinces them: “Don’t doubt. Don’t think. Bet it all makes sense!” They obey.
It’s repulsing, to let it win and not even realise it. Though in the moments
they look up at stars, our silent mocking witnesses, they feel something like
calling again. It’s the unspoken, non-existent voice of absurdity. Fortunately
for them, at home, the usual noise of dishwashing and shutting doors calms them
down, thus they can fall asleep in the cursed silence.
But me, I cannot. If I were strong enough I’d
scream to break it, yet it would be useless. I can’t ever get rid of myself.
I’ll try to read and then I’ll listen to some music to know I may not be the
only one who feels it. I’ll sit quietly. Finally, I’ll turn the music off.
There’ll be nothing but the silent futility, silent void, silent agony left for
me. There’ll be no revolt, I know. It’s too human and too silent to make me
forget; to make me exist. There’ll be no sleep, either. Silence will last
forever. It has buried me alive.