Right now I hear the blower on the gas fireplace. Such a sound, any constant sound soothes me and does not distract me. The sound of the dryer in the background has the same effect upon me, our refrigerator not so much because it is not constant, anything but, and I coulda shoulda read the reviews. "So loud." One review even called it "an obnoxious musical disaster." I agree. Unfortunately I read the reviews after my purchase. It was on sale. Love a sale. Luckily the refrigerator is far enough away from my bedroom, otherwise I might be tempted during my sleepless nights to blame my insomnia on its preordained misbehavior. Being around my refrigerator reminds me of being at one of my kids first year strings concerto; not good, but you have to be there when it's your kids recital, looking towards the stage with pride, occasionally looking towards another parent with a "we gotta be here" shrug. You can't leave and you accept your fate in the moment as is the case when I am near my refrigerator when it is acting all bitchy. Regarding a sleepless night, I do realize lack of sleep is due to my own mental state, my "me and my story" being out of sync, but isn't it convenient to place the blame elsewhere?

Since I am in gripe mode and you asked "what do you hear," my all time auditory pet peeve is being forced to listen to music when I am seeking silence. Anywhere. At the beach, in the park, but especially in my own back yard, my sanctuary. I cannot write, I cannot read with music playing in the background at all. I do not know if this means I just have control issues, or some type of sensory impairment, or one of the seven types of ADD, because when I went to school things were simple. Look at the blackboard, here are your books, listen to your teacher. Do your homework. Boom. Reports cards come. Have them signed. Returned. Boom. That was it. Classifications? No such thing in my day. So what if I sound ancient. A leopard has spots.

I picked up these earplugs at Wal-Mart. They are foam. They are disposable and they pretty much do the trick when my neighbor is in blast the country music mode but I find myself still distracted once I pop them in by his audacity when personal earbuds are such a thing, especially when I've been candid with him that I adore the outdoors and silence. But hey. I do realize it's a free country, with free airspace and he has the right to do what he wants on his property. But do I have to like it?

So what do I hear? Fortunately, nothing right now that gets my dander up. Are you sorry you asked?

I hear the silence of the night

when all those around me sleep.

There’s a slowing of the world,

a stopping of the race,

and all the noise makers cease.

I hear the silent air of the night,

when quiet dreams have their say.

It all stands still, the tread wheel halts

a peaceful hush...

before the tumult of the day.

it sounds soft and warm. the headphones have been digging into my ears far too long, and the pain contrasts the noise that surrounds it. dissonance in the low bass. the vibrations, the fingerprints on string. click of ivory on mahogany. white. brown. white. brown. fuzzy beats, tingling accents, and the empty silence behind it all. I find the silence. it becomes music of its own, between the blanket of quiet passion. the song ends, and the sound of a tired battery wakes me from my pleasant dream.

It’s 9:54 in the morning. Nothing stirs, neither in the house nor out. Yet, if I listen close enough there is a ticking noise.

No clockwork device adorns the walls or shelves; all our timepieces are electronic. But still the rhythmic da-dun, da-dun persists.

Could it be the pulse in my ears? I am no stranger to that thrum-thrumming beat, which is why I know my heartbeat is not the sound I now hear.

Da-dun, da-dun.

The noise is regular, sharp. It signifies the counting down of time, of that I am sure. It repeats as steadily as a pendulum swings, each arc carving the future into minute slivers of the present. The past is nothing more than millions of these sliced moments, stored in the mind to be rejoiced, feared or (worse?) forgotten.

But this lyrical waxing does not bring me closer to an answer - what is that sound?

Da-dun, da-dun.

Now I am imagining a grandfather clock, it’s long pendulum an axe attacking time. I think I may have read of such a thing an a Pratchett novel, possibly Mort. It seems a fitting timepiece for the abode of Death.

Da-dun, da-dun.

It that what I can hear? My very own clock in Death’s house, ticking away the seconds of my life?

As frightful as that thought may be, I suppose I should be thankful that I can hear it. While ever the clock ticks, my life continues. A far scarier prospect would be the silencing of that clock, for it could only signify one thing.

Da-dun, da-dun.

Da-dun, da-

I hear the warm air

Lifting

Pushing down the cold

I hear the

Emptiness

Of South Street

On Sunday morning

I hear the

Quiet breath

Of my youngest

Slumbering soundly

I hear

The flood of tears

Behind my eyelids

I hear

My mind reprimanding me

For this folly

I hear my heart

Shattering

Section by section

I hear my heart

Shuttering

To weather the storm

I hear my fingers

Typing

The first of many

Heartbreak poems

Sure to come

Ah,

Now I hear

The tears dropping

Softly

Steadily

Onto my comforter

I hear my comforter

Calling me

To snuggle back in

And feel its warmth

I hear my heart

Crying out

"But he was my comforter!"

I hear my mind

Admonishing me

"Nevermore"

A ticking clock.

I didn't notice it much until I stopped to listen.

And when I listened it got loud, unbearably loud.

So loud that I thought I could never drown it out. So loud that I wanted to leave this desk, or rip it off the wall.

But then I started to write, and it got quieter. Tick-tocking away like a metronome, holding the beat as I typed, holding the rhythm and the pace.

Dear reader,

Is it possible to fall deeply, I ask myself, the countless books and films all give hope, and promise that a messy, beautiful love may exist? That feeling of being consumed by another.

I admit I cry terribly and often, watching two hapless people who for all other purpose, have no friends or few interests in common, fold into each other’s lives and that’s it, I’m hooked. Believe me, my eyes crumble at any scene with a horse to the backdrop of a woman singing softly (the advert for the bank with the prancing horse, gets me every time).

All that is just floating letters on a crisp yellowing page, the dog-ended books that litter bedroom floor space, is as close to bedroom lust, and fantastical romance I’ve ever known.

So I ask, does it exist?

I’ve tried, I have. Following countless friend’s advice and pursed what the nightlife has to offer, which has produced its own brooding glances, fierce lipped kisses and tantalising dalliances, but please; the four-letter word, has remained elusive. I wonder what Emily, Charlotte and Anne would make of all this, would they laugh, would they subscribe to social media, too. That constant connection to a perceived version of ourselves and each other. Is it any wonder, there is the struggle for lasting connection with another, when we are so often out of touch with ourselves?

Let me ask you,

Can you educate me what is a modern love? Is it real? And what does it feel like?

How do you know you have obtained it?

Does it exist?

Kind wishes,

CornishGal.

# shaynabryer

#ChallengeMaker

#Trident

#coldfront

#ColdRamen

#JennShepherd

#TheDreamer

delicate sounds—

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shaggy breaths

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rain pouring within

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so loud

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humming noises

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so quiet world with

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sound

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of the sleeping

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Why am I awake?

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Why am I here?

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