There is a rare moment when everything is briefly, beautifully, perfectly quiet.
In this moment, nothing dares disturb the stillness; there is no intoxicating scent wafting in from the next room, no harsh sunlight scrutinizing your mortal form through the window, no savory taste you try in vain to preserve on your tongue.
In this moment, time slows down, and as the uproar of your thoughts gives way to a pleasant emptiness, you become acutely aware of how serenely and absolutely alone you are.
In this moment, lost souls are allowed some solace and comfort as they rest, if only for a short while, before they must once again submit to the addictive bonds of aspiration and trudge onward in their eternal quest that is simultaneously impossible to complete and impossible to abandon, so alluring is the prospect of its success.
In this moment, the past and the future bleed together into a raging, indecipherable, unrelenting hurricane of emotion, and you become an observer watching within the eye of the magnificent and terrifying storm that is known as life.
In this moment, there is immeasurable, unquantifiable distance between you and the world you wish you could leave behind, the world you can never outrun no matter how hard you try, the world you have finally found some solace from in this limbo, this reality outside reality, this brief, beautiful, perfect quiet.
In this moment, the overcast heaven above has not yet begun crying, wounded though it is by the anguish and animosity thrown carelessly into its depths by passing souls on their pursuit of this thing they call “happiness,” this wonderful paradise of endless pleasure and warmth, this utopia that closes its gates to all but the blissfully innocent and the exceptionally naive, this faraway oasis every soul knows as the cruelest lie ever conceived yet thirsts for nonetheless.
In this moment, as you sit on the couch in the dreary light of a clouded afternoon, you miss what you never had and envy what you will never be.
In this moment, your rusted limbs creak with effort and age as you cross your arms on your chest and stare at the ceiling, lost not in frantic, panicked thought, but in the sacred melancholy that has so completely enchanted your being.
In this moment, you dare not wonder what they say about you, or what they think of you, or what trials you will have to face when you must once again return to the living, because right now you are neither living nor dead, simply existing in the plane between worlds, where time does not flow and space is irrelevant beyond these four walls that cocoon you in serenity.
In this moment, you feel, for once, at peace, without the pressure of expectation nor the remorse of failure, looking neither forward nor back, marinating in the loneliness you have lusted for all your life, the loneliness that can no longer exist in a world that cannot, will not stop its endless march, ever forward, forward, forward.
In this moment, you need nothing except to feel the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe in, breathe out, eyes trained on the ceiling, doggedly avoiding the inevitable end of the quiet, when things begin to speed up once again, when the loud noise and the bright lights ensnare you in their insatiable hunger, when you can no longer afford to sway from the beaten path lest it become known to your fellow-creatures that you are completely and utterly lost beyond their reach.
In this moment, you ruminate, knowing the moment has to end but dreading it all the same, preparing for reentry into the world that will never feel safe to you, at once resigned to the demise of your solitude and endlessly, foolishly hopeful that you may one day rediscover this brief, beautiful, perfect quiet.
In this moment, you close your eyes, ready to return. The door opens, and the quiet flees without ceremony. The moment is over, and you are back among the living.
(Written April 7, 2023. Inspired by Cavetown’s “Smoke Signals” after a hike on a cloudy day.)
