Pain and Silence

So I was enjoying a cup of coffee at noon, and I suddenly had this thought:

“The more pain a person feels, the more quiet he becomes.”

By quiet, I don’t mean calm or gentle. Because on how I see it, pain makes people more paranoid, hysteric and sensitive. There were a couple of them who approached me to express their grief; be it adults or teenagers like me. All I did was to listen to them, since that was merely what I can do.

After conversations with teary eyes and crooked voices, there’s always that silence. Not an awkward one that you could sword through with a joke or an arranged series of interesting questions. It’s a kind of silence that is worse than a blank, thousand-paged essay. A silence so difficult to interrupt.

The next time you see the person you listened to, if you felt his grief like it’s half your own, you will never see him the same way again. Instead, he’s more fragmented like a crooked road after an earthquake. He’s more quiet; physically calm, a straight line, but you know he’s as messed up as an unattended telephone cord. And you’re the only one who can notice that, because you know his pain and you heard his silence.

We all have that silence, and it always comes after the pain.

It sort of explained some of the silent people, too, and the reason why they’re mute to the world. Maybe, just maybe, they had too much pain that they don’t mind their silence flowing out of them. And maybe, their silence was a green traffic light, a sign that they needed someone to express their grief to. Maybe.

Yet I can’t believe it took me this long to realize the worth of those conversations –verbal or not. It’s priceless. A person’s own silence so private that it’s arduous to share. But they bravely shared it with me, anyway. And it made an invisible bond that’s only accessible to us; a silent bond that’s only audible to us. It’s pretty special, really.

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