|Quiet Please - Sheepcote Street - sign (Photo credit: ell brown)|
Silence is an illusion. No matter how quiet it gets, it is never perfectly quiet. Complete silence may be a possibility in the depths of outer space but since I have never been there, I cannot confirm.
Waking up in the dead of the deadest night, I can still hear the tick-tock of the wall clock as it goes about its dreary duty, the rubbery sound of car tires returning home after a long night out or a train's distant whistle. In remote corners away from civilization, there is still no escape from the world of sound, the crack of a distant twig, the burble of a flowing stream or even the sound of my own breathing inside the sleeping bag always punctuating the wild domains of the moon and starlight. The camper may be in search of peace but there is always sound surrounding his world, albeit of the more pleasant kind.
Silence is a deep tide continuously flowing in, seeking to cover in all its wake yet allowing the smallest of objects to bob up. At times, the flotilla overwhelms the surface making us forget the power underneath. As the world goes to sleep, one bedroom light at a time, it becomes the primal force roaming our deserted streets and parks leaving us, the nervous sound-makers strictly in the minority.