When it’s
quiet,
and there’s
nothing
stirring
about,
the winds
are calm,
the lake is glassy and flat,
the rustle
of trees is hushed,
I can think.
Thinking is
horrifying.
The mind whips
up scenarios
so
troubling, disturbing and
nightmarish
that I long for
the cacophony
of congestion,
voices other
than my own and
the illusive
grinding noise of city
life.
There’s a
curious comfort in the
madness of
noise.
For me.
A city boy.
Rural peacefulness
is an uncomfortable
horror show
of the worst imagined
possibilities.
Everything is coming
to get me,
every bug, cricket and
mosquito. To
murder me.
The noises
of traffic, ambulances,
sirens,
shouting, movement, rushing
about seems
more like life to me than
the
stillness of a lazy river slowly drifting
downhill,
with critters croaking and ribbeting,
along the
banks. Muddy, silence.
It gives me
the heebie-Jeebies.
Purposeful
noise means progress to me,
kinetic and energized,
moving towards
some planned
goal, some practical advancement,
some elusive
accomplishment, giving me
comfort, and
a baffling sense of pride.
Reaffirming that
the world, for all its steel
and glass,
cement and asphalt; is alive.
It must be Summer
in the city.
No comments:
Post a Comment