The clock would tick quietly, if there were a clock

The clock would tick quietly, if there were a clock. But there isn’t, so there’s just a buzzing sort of silence. An empty corkboard hangs on the wall. The light is bright, proclaiming some kind of triumphant discovery – but it’s late, the kind of hour that should be filled with a musty yellow. Nothing moves.

These, somehow, are the moments that fill the hallways of my memory. The bright ocean paintings and vibrant nights catch the eye, but it is the dust-covered frames filled with too-loud silence that catch my breath. I know that I am me in these pauses in between breaths.

This is nothing, the whole scene whispers. The nothingness is a relief from the loud proclamations of Something that clutter the day. Every moment wants to be A Moment, every figure huddled in an alley leaps up with a cry when a gaze brushes over them. The square is full of elbows and jostling, until it isn’t, and only a sheen of rain on the cobblestones is left.

This is aliveness. This breath, this moment, is no different from any other. This feeling of chest rising and the electric hum. Are you happy? Are you living a good life? My chest lifts and my ears ring with silence. Are you fulfilled? Have you lived up to your potential? The couch holds my indentation. I am cold. Does your life have meaning? Are you thriving? Have you achieved what you set out to do? The whiteness of the walls is different, if you really look – one is a little more grey than the other.

I cannot stay. The emptiness is too complete, and parts of me I cannot bear begin creeping out into the expanse. The humming becomes louder, insistent. My face twitches. It is the quietest showdown – me against silence, narrative against being, self defenses against the patient grey walls. The silence can wait far longer than I can. I close my journal and hang up the picture frame.