City silence never is. Out there on frosted streets feet still write morse code essays on pavements at all hours. When rush hour has come and gone the hum of engines might diminish but hangs in the shadows at the edge of sound, ready to burst out and split the night like the mating call of some metallic urban beast. The city itself is just a dense forest of houses which whisper everybody’s secrets from dusk till dawn then round again.
Stillness is not an absence of noise, it is the acceptance of it as a virtual ever-present in our lives. Grant me the serenity to know that student neighbours are unlikely to shut the fuck up at three in the morning just because I would prefer it if they did shut the fuck up. I’d also prefer it if I were wealthy enough to spend the rest of my life travelling the world and could reverse the damage done to my lungs by bronchiectasis but I do realise my preference is not an automatic guarantee of achievement. Nor do my preferences always fall in line with reality. Which is why I can’t tell you about that amazing party I went to on Moonbase Six with Rose Tyler from Doctor Who.
I can be at peace with city so-called silence. I can be as irritated as a cow with a hornet up its rectum when I am quietly sat beneath a tree in the middle of nowhere. Environment is not all; it has unique impacts and influences on our moods and humours but we are the ones responsible for how we react to and feel about whatever we experience. So writes the man still struggling to accept that he had to leave America behind just as he was making friends with it, leave and come home to this more sedentary, solitary life.
Shut up, already. Damn!