It’s Never Quiet
Last night, I lay in bed for quite a while. It’s a residential street upon which I live, so there was almost no sound. Yet I had to think myself to sleep. I had to keep thinking to keep out the noise. The freeway is several miles away, so there was hardly even the hum of distant, speeding cars. No drunks ramble up this way. But it’s not quiet for me. It’s never quiet. In still times like these, when there’s no music playing and no conversation and my feet are slapping the ground back and forth, my ears whine, whine, whine and remind me that silence does not exist for me anymore.
Heaven is a place where I could choose to hear nothing. No more ringing, just quiet.
I’m just starting to come to terms with the fact that I’ll never hear that silence ever again, that under every noise in my life waits the ringing that has replaced that silence. I wish I had used ear plugs years ago. Now my passion requires my hearing, and my hearing is handicapped. Mama, don’t let your babies see punk shows without protection.
