The Noise in the Silence

The Noise in the Silence

 

She had heard rumors, the gossip, the gut-wrenching whispers about how people never trust her. Rumors about her own self always seem to pierce deeper than other types, for obvious reasons. No matter, the fact that people saw her as a bitch had not been the surprise, instead, the labeling of weak was what had taken her aback. 

 


 

To wonder about the self ultimately reveals a desire for awareness, she assumes. Often, too often, the social pressures, of dealing with people she would rather not, turns her into an apathetic bitch altogether. She doesn’t want her there. Sey is who. No one, she reasons, wants her there. Who?, what kind of person would want her (or anyone like her) there?

 


 

Run she must, and so, run she does. The surrounding silence of her favorite band of yore blares loudly through the miniature sound machines that fit snugly behind her ears. She cannot even hear her own breath. The rhythm, the vibrating thump of each footfall, she needs to be lighter, engage the core. Don’t forget to use the legs, she reminds. When was the last time she felt so free? she wonders. Free from what? In what sense of freedom? Freedom, obviously, is not free. What a stupid fucking question. Next song.

 


 

She doesn’t want to do it anymore, and whatever “it” is, she hasn’t a clue. What she does know is that she wants to do something, have something happen, experience something beyond the droll existence of dealing with, interacting with, being surrounded by, being observed by people or … others. She wants something else; she wants it. Whatever “it” is better be fucking epic.

 


 

Scurrying, she hustles to the pickup area where the old lady —the only employee of ‘Come and Go’ Cafe— stands and waves her down. The old lady says something in the language she still, pathetically, does not understand. “You sit there and write, write, write. Order an Americano … something, something, something … in America, you write, but an Americano does not have. This tea … something, something.” Obviously, little has been communicated effectively, and of what was recognized, there, no sense could be made. Eyes wide, she smiles, silent as the old lady seems angry. She’s been here enough times now to know that the feeling is not anger, but it is something. Knowingly, the old lady, nevertheless, always speaks to her despite her lacking recognition of anything the old lady says. Smiling, the old lady waves her off. She gestures and vocalizes gratitude with a few of the handful of words she does know and further confuses the old lady; she imagines.

 


 

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