Silence

I’m sitting on the bus back from Boston with little orange ear plugs curled into my ears, and large black driving-range earmuffs clapped around that which look enough like headphones that people don’t bother me. I’m in a little pool of light, personal lightswitch clicked on above, like the ones you find in airplanes except yellower. My laptop is open on my lap, but I’m staring outside. The sun’s set, but the sky lingers in those pinks and purples: painted swathes that deny the scope of any art we could create. My neighbors chat in the surrounding darkness, but all I hear in my head, vibrating through my skull, is the heavy drone of the bus’s engine and the thought: “Isn’t that sky beautiful?”

…

I have an emphatic inner voice. It doesn’t ever really stop talking. It fills my silent room with a constant stream of chatter. It plays music for days on end, often beginning with the same verse, until it bursts forth and I sing: me in my room with the wrong words because like telephone it’s been murmured to me too many times.

Focusfocusfocus! I commanded it last week. We have tests- work-to-do- don’t wander! The voice meandered anyway: to what I’d be able to do to make a good friend feel better, to whining about taking a break, to basking in a recalled story, before I remembered and pulled it back. Listened to it read my statistics study guide to me, the rhythm paced and methodical. An epic never-ending song of words that flourishes only in still space.

…

I’m talking despite myself, riding over the last clip of someone else’s voice, too excited to share what I feel to listen to what they’re trying to say.

I’m talking when the conversational flow asks me, easy back-and-forth camaraderie, the neuroscience sophomores at MIT having adopted me into their fold without a single sideways glance.

I’m listening attentively, focusing on a friend’s face. Memorizing facts and processing feelings, ready with a question at the next pause.

…

I’m in a group, listening. They’re talking about the Wellesley House Presidents Formal dance last weekend. People finish dinner and trickle out. “How’s school, Monica?” Dorothy asks. I smile, feeling a bit blinded: here I have something to say.

…

School’s well. Life’s well. My midterms are well, my family is well, my friends are well, my focus is well my exercise is well my calm is well my research is well all is well.

“My life is dreadfully boring,” I laugh to Suman, and she sort of smiles-shrugs-concerns at me before launching into a story.

I wanted to say: you don’t need to make up for it though. There’s nothing to make up for.

I wanted to say: isn’t the sky lovely?

And: I’m so pleased that you’re here.

 

 

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