“In my time spent being silent, I have learned that there are different silences with their own distinct feelings. There is the silence of desperation, which feels like your lungs are being filled with water: you are suffocating. There is the silence of frustration, which feels like you are being stabbed from the inside by numerous knives: you are internally bleeding. There is the silence of contentment, which feels like the warmth of the sun on your back: you are satisfied. There is the silence of fear, which feels like hundreds of thousands of insects crawling all over your skin, your face: you are being devoured. There is the silence of understanding, which feels like a warm and long embrace: you are being seen, perhaps for the very first time. There is the silence of numbness, which feels like oblivion: you are not here, you are somewhere else. There is the silence of all-consuming, obsessive love, which feels like you are burning yourself at the stake: you are self-sacrificing. There is the silence of fragility, which feels like your body is made of glass: you can shatter into a million pieces simply from a misinterpreted glance or gesture. There is the silence of misunderstanding, which feels like your wrists are being relentlessly sliced open: you are slowly dying. There is the silence of depression, which feels like you are dragging around a huge rock everywhere you go: you are exhausted. And finally, there is the silence of aesthetic arrest, which feels like your body has been hit with the force of insurmountable beauty: you are overwhelmed.”
— R.M., Silence speaks its own truths (via orphan-soul)
