Quiet

Quiet makes me uncomfortable.
As a child I liked listening to the
sound of the shower
As my parents were bathing.

Rain.
I would listen to the rain
on an especially stormy night
like conversations going on
white noise murmuring
in the background.  That's why
I love falling asleep to the
television, it seems
like dinner party
conversation that I was not
a part of as a child.  Always the
observer even then
even now.

I sit in my bed decades later
and hear the cars pass by
what looks like a quiet street
with its multiple apartment buildings
and cars buzzing past on
their way to the big street.  It's the
same thing.  Me in bed in my
quiet little corner
as conversations are happening
above me.  I still feel
tucked away all of this time later.

Quiet helps me create.
Or being alone.
But that just helps me create
more quiet so I hear
the voices.  The voices
are for everyone, Collins to Camus,
we all hear them
the same.  They are what we
are guided by and if we don't
listen, we are missing something,
which is why I spent so many
rain puddled nights listening
to them afraid to miss
something afraid to be
left out.  Sound is different
now, why should quiet not
be the same?

Quiet shrinks me down.
If I don't move no
one will know I am
here and will keep
talking
around me
falling over
me and drenching me
in their hushed
tones and droning
conversations, thunderstorms
of pitter patter.  Quiet lets me
hear.  I hear everything.