So I stopped listening to music.
I walked to lectures in silence, waited for buses in silence, spent long train journeys in rhythmic, rattling silence.
I ran in silence.
Unaccustomed to silence, my mind made up for it.
By thinking.
By composing its own thoughtful music. Talking things over. Thinking things through. Making suggestions, asking questions, rolling absurdities around, tonguing them like cherry stones. Digging up images like boxes of old photos, flicking through them, making collages, making montages. Igniting old feelings, touching nerves. Causing pain. Wringing itself out and letting the cold juices of self-loathing sink down my spine. Making itself smile. Making itself laugh. Writing itself love letters, penning adventures, misadventures, spinning out dreams like an old lady at a loom. Losing itself.
Then I got an iPhone and some new headphones.
My silent bus journeys were suddenly filled with glorious sound, my walks to work alive with the sound of music. My runs more escapist; no longer could I even hear my heartbeat, my footsteps, my ragged breath. Putting headphones on is like opening a beloved, enthralling book. Nothing bothers me. I am in my own world of lovely music. I feel wholesome and free.
But when I try to write I suddenly realise I have nothing to write about. Nothing. My mind, tired from thankless work and a long commute, lulled by soothing, soporific sounds, has nothing to say for itself. It didn't need to. It wasn't made to entertain itself. It just sat and listened. It didn't have to think. And so it thought about nothing, and no ideas were spawned, no memories resurfaced, no dreams were woven. No new connections were made. It just bathed lazily in beautiful music.
Now, music is wonderful, moving, magnificent, and vital for the soul. I missed it. I am thrilled to have it back.
But there is a lot to be said, it seems, for silence.
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