Listen...
I've come to the suburbs for some silence. My parents are on a vacation for the entire week. I'm here, in their house, and the only thing outside of me that is making any noise is the chrome refrigerator. It is grumbling in the same language as my stomach, which I can also hear. I smile because this makes sense -- the refrigerator and my stomach -- they are kin.
I've been here for a little less than a day and a half. It's nice. It's quiet.
Normally, I am overwhelmed by noise. I am overwhelmed by the chatter-clutter of the world. I'm dizzied by it. I'm depressed by it. I don't want to add to it. I want to be silent. But the world tells me that silence is bad. It tells me I must think and talk and write. Fast. Confidently. A lot. Successful women are social. Successful women articulate. Smart women thrust their own faltering voices into the mix or die a terrible death. I am here (hear? ) to say: I don't want to talk. I don't want to write. I would rather be quiet. Very quiet. Silent. I would rather watch and listen than talk.