Silence of the nights.

No! I’ve not stolen this thought from you. I too think there’s something special, something eerily beautiful about nights; nights filled with silence.

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I can stare at the walls for no reason.
I can laugh on my own.
I can scream inside my head.
Well!
I can even contemplate on world problems
and the meaning of life
and the monsters under my bed.
Everything is more intense,
more true, at night.
Even the words spoken during the day
echo a new and deeper meaning.

Long after dusk
and way before dawn,
in a city of a million souls,
when I realize I’m one of the few awake
at an unnatural hour,
in a concrete heap,
of untouched,
crystallized,
protected,
hidden…
Darkness.
Something helps me find myself.
Under the sight of a shooting star.

The tranquility after a frantic day
of bustling through aural graffiti
that speaks through vibrations of sound,
incessantly filling up my silences,
with more noise.
From the divine cacophony of speakers
piercing the airwaves in the name of religion,
to the soul-numbing discordance of a city traffic;
from the unmusical notifications
and news headlines warring for my eye-balls,
to the IQ numbing updates
I subject my brain to on social media;
noise surrounds me, noise annoys me.

Silence.
It has no sound.
Ah! The irony. But that’s when
I notice the sounds
that are too feeble to be heard
during the day.
The ticking inside the unnoticed clock,
the breath under her subdued whispers,
the sound of my turning pages,
the voice of the moving fan.
I feel the serenity of the world
at that moment
seep into my consciousness.

And that’s when
my thoughts have no release,
no escape
and no control.
Completely untempered and without direction.
They have been heard,
but not listened to.
I’ve imbibed them,
I live them,
I breathe them.
Silently,
they silence me,
and control every moment,
untraced,
so that I can go back
to the rituals next day.
Amidst soul-jarring noises.

If not for such nights,
the entire trajectory of my existence
would be thrown off its cosmic path,
my planet would crack on its axis,
my dreams,
would shatter to pieces.

The nights are filled with
both truth and lies.
I don’t know how I feel about this.
This, probably,
is a mistake.
It is secrets revealed,
which,
according to you,
might mean you share this with me.
Maybe, deep down,
we are all filled with
the same insecurities,
the same searches
and the same voids.

In those nights
filled with silences
I’m internally lifeless,
eternally frightened,
in search of what life is.
And every moment gradually turns,
unconsciously,
into the right thoughts
appearing in the right succession.
The dreams I fear
are spoken and heard
amidst a certain silence,
and no longer hidden.
And a lump of emotion
in my throat
chokes with freedom
and that’s when
even silencers remain silent.

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