Some people hear all this quiet and try to fill it up with themselves. Clanging, shouting, stomping until the sound of something conscious echoes back from distant cliffs or gets swallowed by the the trees or the waves or the general void.
Futile. Folly. Human.
Hard to be quiet. Alone. With only intrusive thoughts to keep you company. Fears, disquiets, insecurities, all held at bay by chaos and noise and a busy kind of hubbub suddenly free of a downward pressure, bubbling to the surface until they threaten to boil over.
Panic! Panic. Shout, scream, stomp. Until you realize you have survived and the feelings that momentarily threatened to drown you have ebbed and the thoughts, unwanted and unloved, did not linger, having not made quite the impression they thought they would. Sometimes your unwanted thoughts leave out of pure embarrassment.
How silly of me. Terribly sorry. I'll show myself out.
The panic in those still moments though. That the thoughts and feelings you run from are too big too much too much. Followed by a distinct anti-climax. Oh was that all? Uncomfortable yes, but not The End. Feelings in the rearview mirror may be more manageable than they appear.
Maybe you lost your composure for a hot minute. Maybe you survived that too.
If a man cries alone in a forest, does he make a sound? Who cares. Feelings gotta feel. Scream, shout, stomp. This time not to drown the noise but to get it out. Let it out. Everything bound up in your nerves from behind your eyes to the tips of your fingers. Tensions stored carefully, lovingly until, absent outside pressure, released in a great wave. At last. At least.
Until all that is left is the quiet. And the last echoes of you fading away until all that is left is you. Yourself. No stories, just breathing. No worries, just starlight. No thoughts of particular importance. Just you. Only you. No further qualification necessary. End of report.
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