Sound. What a curious concept.
There are all types of sounds. Sounds that ring, sounds that clatter. Sounds that mix together in your brain and make a gritty, sandy, mushy paste. Sounds of all sorts of colors that bump together in combinations that aren’t supposed to happen.
There are lots of unpleasant sounds.
Take, for example, when you’re walking down a street, any street. The wind whistles. Loose bits of crumbling sidewalk grind underneath your leather boots, gritting against the rubber soles. A continuous, bothersome sound. Your coat gets blown loose from its buttons, and the loose fabric flaps in the still-whistling wind, hitting your skin again and again and again. A bristling sound, one that you can feel. Cars on the adjacent street make all sorts of sounds, too — rusted metal screeching against cracked pavement, filthy smoke puffing out from their insides. A dissonant sound, filling your nostrils and fogging your brain along with the air.
Everything is just so…loud.
Loud, all of it. You shut your eyes, so you can’t see the sounds, either. Another screech, another rumble, another whistle, bumping of shoulders, hushed voices, so secretive, everyone’s so secretive, are they talking about me? Another rustle, another screech, loud, loud, it’s all so loud, their eyeballs are on your skin, speaking in hushed voices again, loud, way too loud, walking, steps quickening, walking, walking, walking —
Your eyes peel open.
Something’s different.
You look, watch, wait, listen. Listen.
The wind whistles, like always. But, unlike before…
Nothing screeches, rumbles, or rustles. Nothing whispers. It’s wind, just wind.
It’s quiet. Quiet, but only in comparison, as the wind whistles on, tousling your hair and tossing it in all directions, exposing your ears. But it’s fine, because all of those sounds aren’t clashing and bumping and going neck-to-neck with each other in your skull anymore. It’s quiet.
It’s peaceful. You wish to stay here for a while.
…
…Isn’t it a little cold?
At once, you become increasingly aware of the way that your frame trembles with every new gust of wind, the way that your gloveless hands tingle, your pulse spreading down to your fingertips. The way your eyes sting, with the type of dryness that doesn’t go away even after you close your eyes.
But more than anything, you notice a dull hollow inside your chest that didn’t seem to be there before. Is it pain? It’s hard to tell, to feel much at all, as the wind continues to whistle, snow now battering against your skin, sharp and persistent.
You close your eyes again.
…
Something pierces through the dark of your eyelids. A light. There’s a soft light up ahead, gentle beams radiating through the dim haze of white snow. You don’t remember when it appeared. It swings gently in a rhythm — a lantern. You stare at it from a distance, longing but unable to move closer, helplessly watching as it slowly grows larger and larger. What could it be?
Or perhaps…who?
The light grows larger, and larger, when suddenly, hands are over your own — rough and firm; not demanding, but warm. They’re patting your battered face and tousled hair, wrapping around you with a foreign familiarity. The lantern sits buried in the snow, dropped there hurriedly, with the soft glow filling the fresh pocket of snow with warmth. You do not recognize this face, but yet you are being cared for like a long lost friend.
A sound, starkly different from the still-whistling wind, floats towards you. Is it a voice? It’s hard to tell. But whatever it is, it is gentle, comforting. One that hides no secrets. Like a song, a soft melody that engulfs your heart in warmth, a feeling that you hope will never go away.
And just for a little bit, it feels as if the wind has died down to a gentle breeze.
Maybe not all sounds are unpleasant after all.
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