The Meaning of Silence

Dear Diary,

What is the meaning of silence? I’ve been puzzling over that conundrum today. I bet you know the answer, Diary. You’ve lived your life as a silent object, to be open at my will for my ink to sink into your pristine pages. You cannot speak to me as I speak to you, through the rhythmic strokes of my pen. But even then I’m silent too, because my mouth is not moving to give sound to those words. So is silence the absence of sound?

According to Google definitions and Wikipedia, I’m right. But the scientific explanation does not rest easy with me. It makes the whole concept sound dull when its mysterious, alluring magic is nullified by fact. I’m sure there’s more to silence. After all, I embraced it when I thought about this in the first place.

So I came up with my own version, and I now present it to you, Diary. It is the result of thinking and sifting through memories best forgotten. And for this reason, I wish to be nameless. For I am but a shadow in the background, where the silence rules. And within this shady background, silence champions anonymity. I bequeath you my silent story, and beneath it, my silent plea. Each word that I etch into your skin, Diary, will be etched into my head for many years to come.

So what is silence? Three words came to my mind at that word. Loneliness, isolation, death. Grim words. I know there are happier things to describe silence. But this is my version. Happiness does not permeate it.

I guess I could call silence a type of noise, even though the juxtaposition might be an oxymoron. Remember the old word couple, “deafening silence”, getting clichéd by the day? Silence can be loud, intimidating, especially if it is directed the wrong way. I reckon silence is as loud as the waves crashing against scarred rocks. Those rocks would be weeping, had they possessed the power of tears. The spray of salt from those threatening waves would rub more salt into their wounds. Just as silence for me, is rubbing imaginary salt into imaginary wounds.

And it is also as loud as realisation that I keep little company, despite my efforts.

It’s the oppression of that impossible noise that brings despair and discontent within my self. It’s even worse that knowing I am among raucous company, but I am unable to engage in it, and the silence that hangs around me is like a cold stone weighing down my heart. Maybe silence smells like death, and that’s why little keep company with me.

I cut a lonely, silent person among the loud and boisterous. But I’m so insignificant; I could be like a speck of dust on the bus seat. It’s through pure ignorance, as pure as a drop of water, that splashes across that speck of dust and I liquefy and drop away, unseen, uncared for, without mourning. And so I, a blemish in the otherwise happy contingent, fade away into the silence.

Silence can be a shield, but it can also be a subtle weapon. As a weapon, it is almost effortless, just a barely noticed drift to block me out, or the refusal to utter words in my direction, but cast them to more favourable members of the human world. Its cheapness, shamefulness, barely acknowledged, considered a necessity to block out unfavourable members of the human world, or simply a custom readily used.

As a shield disguised as a weapon, its radius extends to include many in its protective aura, but it also excludes the unworthy ones. The victim, feeling its brunt, takes it upon her battered, shaking self, and inadvertently dons it for herself only. The silence she embraces is bitter, like being smashed with a grapefruit, its bitter juices following well-worn tear tracks down a wretched face, watched over by a false face of smiles. She would feel the silence blowing over her like a razor sharp ice cold wind biting her again and again, further deepening her woes.  

She tries to eliminate her worries, her pains, her sadness, by engaging in the art of writing. And yet to do so, she would be contradicting herself. Although she hated silence with cold fury because it signified the failure of engaging with others, she welcomed it when she delved into her fictional world, penned arduously over time. For her best writings to come to light, she willed for silence that would de-clutter her confused mind and let her fingers, fastened over a trusty pen or hovering over a chunky keyboard, work their many pronged magic. After all, it was her representative to allow the words streaming from her mind to come to life at the twist of a pen or the tap of the keyboard.

It was silence that would ease her as she immerses herself in word-woven dreams, deaf and dumb to reality, pen painting paper. Forsaking human company for the company of fiction, her words weave wonders that would never appear in real life. Perhaps this was her destiny. Being an author was a lonely job, no matter how many contacts or collaborations with fellow authors one can have. In the end, silence from these people was the only way that the true genius of the English language, and the way it was woven, would come out. By one’s individual brilliance.

I return now, to ask you this question, Diary. Why does silence dictate my life? Is it because of my degraded social skills, or my choice to be a writer? Or is it simply my nature, which changes as each year passes, and as hormonal changes grip me and confuse my logical reasoning. And what purpose did it suppose to have? To belittle me, to confuse me, to anger me? To sadden me? All these questions, would they ever be answered?

Through this mental and emotional journey, I learn so much on how silence has meant to me, but yet I am left with more questions than answers. But maybe, because of silence’s mysterious concept, mysteries would always remain to tease and taunt those who wish to pursue scientific reasoning for these problems. And even when answers are given, I would remain dissatisfied. Maybe these things should be left as they are. Or maybe, because I am a silent victim, I should speak out and break my silence on these issues. But I hold back my fears, for I know that if I do speak, my situation would be considered ‘normal’ and shouldn’t be worried about. Once again, the only option is laid out to me, to bide my time, to find ways to get around it, and make the best of what I can.

So Diary, this is my version of silence. Others will disagree with it, but because you do not speak back, I am sure you will agree, otherwise these words would be never written on you in the first place.

Until next time, my faithful Diary, the nameless one takes her leave.

“You better have dinner now, or else!” Mum shouted.

Reluctantly, I peeled myself away my diary, shutting the small book with a dull thump. I only realised how hungry I was as soon as I pushed back my chair. The diary really took a lot out of me, I reflected.

As usual, I was eating alone, since my parents had long eaten their meals. It was a signal in my shifting relationship with them as I progress through my teenage years. It was a signal of moody silence overwhelming me as I keep more to myself, barely speaking to those who had fed me, clothed me and raised me with loving care.

“What’s so important that made you neglect your dinner?” demanded Mum as soon as I started eating. Unwanted chatter, I scowled. Just what I need.

“It’s work, OK!” I said loudly, shoving rice into my mouth. Mum’s eyes narrowed and when she next spoke, her voice was underlined with barely suppressed anger, “Don’t speak to me like that, you ungrateful child. I was only asking you a question!”

I replied with moody silence, focusing on the meal before me.

Sighing, Mum departed the table, muttering under her breath, “It’s like you can’t speak to me anymore…”

I watched her go with strange detachedness. Mum was right. Silence had overwhelmed my life to an extent that I would not speak as much to my parents anymore. I could attribute it to teenage impatience and desire for independence, but deep within me, I knew that it was always got to do with the silence in my life. If I wasn’t careful, silence would deteriorate all my relationships around me, including my family, increasing my short-temperedness and my discontent with all those around me.

I now break my silence. Help. Please.