The Case for Silence.

32 degrees, said the dashboard thermometer. A most displeasing statistic to be greeted with upon cranking up the Tank to head to work. Separated from the humid cold by metal, glass, and leather, I treasured the complete and utter silence I was also ensconced in. I did not click on the radio. Or check my phone. I drove in absolute quiet, save for the metronomical soundtrack of blinkering and braking. And, as downtown came into view, something else emerged, stark in its clarity: I hoard my quiet. I am a glutton for silence. It is a prized commodity for me. In a culture of small talk, surrounded by the blitzkrieg of communication and unquestioned availability, texts and calls, emails and engagements, I just like to shut up and marinate in the absence of distraction. This craving transcends the personal. It extends to a disdain for the ubiquitous chorus line of talking heads, banner tape at the bottom of screens, "news feeds", the chatter of television, radio, the internet. 

And yet, my epiphany continued. Light was shed further afield. I realized, nearing dangerously close to the parking lot that would swallow my freedom and signal the signing on to The Clock, that my head has become dangerously cluttered with unwelcome space junk. I, who need unblemished cerebellum spaces, have provided a pathway for invaders. My serenity is interrupted by compulsions to loll about aimlessly in the internet's low places. My attention span has abbreviated. Instead of expanding into wondering and daydreaming, I fill my head with the intellectual equivalent of 20 Doritos Locos tacos from Taco Bell washed down with a gallon of Mountain Dew. 

And this, I thought as I pulled into my numbered parking space, savoring the dwindling minutes of my own time and the roaming of this realization, is what I must fight against: the insidiousness of disconnection. I need silence. I need it to tune into the words I write. To make decisions. To hear my instincts. When that space is encroached upon, and becomes endangered, the sanctity of your own voice is compromised. Sitting in my car, watching the clock move towards the appointed hour, I killed the engine, and pulled on my gloves. The cold here has a heft, a weight. And my silence scattered, like frightened birds, and I opened the door to the world.