Grasping the quiet: A languid look at my nights.

Silence is nice, but I enjoy quiet the most. If, right now, you have a puzzled look on your

face, allow me to make sense of myself. There is a subtle difference between silent and

quiet. Silence to me is nonexistence, something that we believe to be there, but in all

reality, it is not. How can we classify silence, as is, when silence in and of itself is

nowhere to be heard? Quiet is how I like the gentle purr of wind just outside my window

on many sleepless nights. It is like the sound of squeaky brakes a few blocks away, the

buzz of neighbor's talking just outside, or the easy breathing in the room next to me.

Quiet is as the distant murmur of an approaching train, or the whirring and ticking of the

CD in my radio when the volume is all the way down. As quiet as the hum of the fridge

in the kitchen, the barely audible click it makes when the heat kicks on, the tinkle of my

cat's collar, or the padding of her paws. His voice is quiet too, as I imagine that some of

you out there know, the rumble of an adored one's voice when they just begin to speak.

Quiet, is the point in my sleepless nights where I feel most secure. Silence, in it's own

existence, is rather unnerving at times.