By candlelight, I write this. A strange dream overcame me in the midst of the night, before a rude interruption from the roar of a thunderstorm. Slowly, the dream fades from my mind, and I remember fewer and fewer details. That, however, is unimportant. A realization came to me upon my awakening to a silent blackness: a realization in the language of silence.
No words rang in my ears; no mechanical hum filled the atmosphere; not even the rhythmic tick, tick of my clock whispered from the corner of my room. Instead, I heard the chirping of insects; I heard the croaking of amphibians. The gentle rustling of leaves came to me even through a closed window. The rain's soothing drone flooded my ears and carried away all other sounds in its torrent.
It is as if I finally hear after a lifetime of deafness. Finally walking outside after living life indoors. I have discovered that listening is not finding the sounds you want to hear, but hearing the sounds that wish to be heard.
For minutes, or perhaps hours does the tongue of night speak. The lips of silence voice their thoughts. Soon, though, power returns. My clock is revived. A mechanical hum overtakes the air again. My fan shudders to life, and extinguishes my candle. No longer can my ears detect nature's words. Deafened again.
(So I sleep for another day, hoping that these moments will not fade like the dream I experienced so shortly ago.)
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