Today after a really long time, I have felt happy; like, genuinely, from head to toe, nothing-can-get-in-my-way, happy. And the reason is quite remarkable.
I have always had affectionate pride for my silence, because that is what helps me listen, observe and absorb. I got to listen to a lot of things today; from getting to know someone better, trying to help someone, to listening to the cause of botheration of someone.
Since I was a kid, I have always loved it. Loved the sharing of memories, secrets, problems, joys and sorrows. Loved the unmasking of faces, those silent moments of a connection that sustains conversations, and of course, my silence. I love listening.
Because as someone who doesn’t divulge her own story, and honestly, hasn’t met anyone who wants or desires to it, I love that spark in the eyes of those who know someone is listening; the lighting up of someone’s face when they put down the weight on their shoulders; the outpouring of years of experiences that one can’t really imagine going through.
As someone who always kept shifting from country to country and leaving every 3 years, I wanted to get to know as many people as possible. I have memories of so many people, tucked away and it makes me happy. Storing memories from people’s lives; makes sense why books have such a hold on me.
I can feel it, all that blocking of emotions has faded and I can safely say, I am healed. At least, healed enough to start storing new memories. And though my search for someone who would want to dive into my story is far from over; that hope has been reignited.
And just something to think about: Silent and Listen are spelled with the same letters.
The Silent Listener.