The silence we hate
I’ve noticed a universally accepted attitude incorporated in our everyday lives: silence must be avoided at all costs.
I’ve been homeschooled up until Grade 6, so I did not notice this attitude until I started commuting every day. This loud but subtle attitude is worn by almost every commuter I’ve seen. We cannot bear it, the itching silence waiting to be filled by some empty conversation, an upbeat song, a TikTok video pairing with another, a “storytime” video, and a Subway Surfers video to maintain our attention span.
When you sit quietly on the jeep, you may argue that you don’t indulge in such young-generation practices, but you avert your thoughts to the sound of the crashing engine, the gossip of high school students, the mother desperately trying to calm down her infant child, the sound of the man outside screaming “Baclaran! Simbahan! Kasya pa isa!” blending into the quiet snore of an overworked employee.
Silence is rare and difficult to love. The piercing, loud ring of nothingness sounds like a fork screeching against a glass plate. I have complied with this practice as well. I cannot bear silence, it feels too empty, it feels like thirsting for water, a desperate need to fill it with something, just anything! I adjust my routine to make sure my wireless earphones are charged; if they are not charged, I resort to listening to the worship songs played in the van.
I have learned to hate silence not just because it is uncomfortable to listen to, but because of this unspoken understanding between myself and my thoughts, that we must not be left alone. I must not be left alone to dwell on daydreams or think about the past or future because I am afraid to face these thoughts. I am afraid to think about my incoming college plans. I am afraid to think about what happened throughout the day because I cannot confront the wrathful grudges I hold against certain people. Moments of silence are stages set up for “could’ve,” “should’ve,” and “would’ve” thoughts.
My days are better spent with music or watching an episode of ”Disturbing things from around the internet” to avoid diving into such destructive thoughts. Yet, in the growing compliance of this attitude, I found a moment where such silence was a necessity.
It was the start of February, and I laid on my bed, defeated. I was unsure of my future, and the events that unraveled earlier that day gave me no assurance of the future I dreamt of. I berated myself for not living up to my standards and for constantly striving yet still disappointing myself in the end. I cried on my bed. There was so much noise in my room. I could hear the wind swirling from the fan, the wind creeping in through the window, and the quiet sound of my legs brushing against the pillows. More noise was added when my mother came in to encourage and comfort me. I mean this with all due respect, but at that moment, I wanted her to be quiet. I wanted it to be silent. I yearned for the one thing I absolutely hated.
I was mentally drained, and my cheeks were stained with salty tears. After my mother left, I sat on the floor and waited. Somehow, the floor gave me more comfort than my bed, so I hugged my knees and looked for the silence in the room.
For a moment, it was silent. I thought to myself, “If I stay completely still, I won’t hear anything,” so I sat completely still.
I found myself sitting on the floor, looking down at the glow-in-the-dark tape conveniently stuck to the white tiles. There was silence, and somehow, that silence felt full and necessary. My thoughts did not scare me this time, they kept me sane. I could hear my logic, I could hear my emotion, and I listened to it. The silence was deep and hollow enough to fill it with thoughts of affirmation. The silence was so warm and comforting that it surprised me. It was no longer a feeling of thirsting for water, but the mere sound of nothingness felt satisfying.
My mother’s voice was gone, and there was no quiet buzz of an open laptop. I could not hear my phone; I could only hear myself. The floor was cold, and I could only look at the darkness. It was all comforting, but nothing could compare to the silence that poured over my distressed being.
Sometimes, the noises we indulge in are the very things that leave us saturated with feelings of distress. We are afraid of silence as our thoughts can scare us, but sometimes they comfort us, and we cannot unravel that feature if we are uncomfortable with sitting still and hearing the emptiness around us.
It is in silence we see how far our minds can go. It is in silence that we realize the different figures our imagination molds. It is in silence that we find the safe thoughts. It is in silence that we find the most interesting noise—ourselves.
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Miciel Cabalatungan, 17, is a Grade 12 humanities student living in Parañaque. She works as a literary writer in her school publication team.
