The Silence that Listens
- May 7
- 3 min read
I figured that if I wanted you to share something, I should share something about myself as well. I'm 17 years old, on the road to my 18th birthday coming in July. I like writing. Not exactly stories but little snippets of whatever I am feeling. Most of the time its monotonous with my everyday life. So naturally, I'm no author; no author of anything but my own story.
Teenage is certainly a chaotic time. So many conundrums that I feel the stars in the solar system want a recount, wanting to reach a higher number than the daily amount of teenage dilemma faced by the various members of civilization across the world.
So I write.
Emotions to be specific.
One can remember the incident but recalling what we felt at that moment is the thing that holds the key to our past selves, maybe form a connection with the present. I feel it strongly. And almost whenever I sit down at my hazel desk, with a black clicker pen in my hand, peering into the pages of my brown makeshift diary, I feel like water. The five letter word doesn't do justice to the feeling of being in no barriers, being fluid; one can only imagine the cool water flowing, touching your skin, making you fly (it does; feel it). Utter calmness.
Utter Chaos.
Bound to no skin yet the thoughts are aligned, alive, flowing.
Unstoppable yet being aware of the limits.
Connected yet dismantled.
Such irony as I write this. I have yet to experience the world but something tells me that our thoughts are valued. And we should value our feelings and ideas and opinions more than anything else. Our identity is precious. Our brain works faster than anything else, it gives us words, constantly; it makes us think, write and ponder and get awfully dragged into the eternal world of human emotions all at once. Once we start we don't wish to stop. Is it the feeling of being liberated of something that you have in your mind but can't speak? Is it the silent breakdown that you can't show to anyone else except these blank inviting pages? Is it the wish of understanding yourself? Is it a wish to vent? It might be many things. Time and time again it will change. The dynamics of the brain is crazy. What is it for you? Maybe a nice comfy spot somewhere in the house with a warm cup of whatever your favourite drink is, some chaos in your mind ready to be set into words on the paper that awaits to be filled. Such is the power of self expression.
I have myself learnt it recently. I'm no expert. But for once, I can tell you how I feel. Maybe it will make you listen to yourself. Maybe it will delve into you, how your ideas of self expression are nothing less than gold waiting to be found. Maybe a small book will lighten up with hope as you vent in its pages. The moments we live for. The moments we want to live for.
It awaits.
(Its a page in my diary; its a page of regret. It doesn't invade my conscience anymore. Because what I felt, I left it in the page. Time froze for me and my memory. And it stays with me. Till these pages or I cease to exist.)
(Original Work of © Sana Musroor, not to be replicated.)
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