I can tolerate silence. I don’t seek
it. I don’t particularly like it. But I can tolerate it.
This has not always been so.
For most of my life, I found silence
insufferable. As a boy, I could not precisely define why I disliked—or at least
mistrusted—quiet spaces. I quickly discovered a solution to the bothersome
silence: making my own noise.
Making a bunch of noise all the time
proved somewhat impractical, but I did my best. I chattered away. I tapped on
tables, bowls, and plates. I made car and truck noises. Thankfully, my mother
enjoyed listening to the radio and often did so throughout the day. I soon
developed a deep love for music.
As I got a little older, I realized
the issue with silence was not the silence outside me. The problem developed
within. Lacking input from the world, my brain began fiddling with knobs and
dials better left untouched. My thoughts jumped off cliffs and sometimes left
the hose running.
To this day, I turn on either the
television or stereo within five minutes of waking. I need the sound. But as
I’ve advanced in age, I’ve learned to tolerate a small diet of silence. I
suppose I’ve, in a sense, exhausted my brain by now. It’s fine with just lying
there for a few minutes.
—Mitchell Hegman
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