That person who exists for some reason but why? Why is she like that, nobody asked. She is clearly different: how to pull something out of that mouth? How to torment that mind so it starts to do and process something we understand and enjoy? That person who does not say anything, cannot, has not got anything interesting to say, say those who define what is interesting, who talk constantly themselves, about themselves. To find out and understand, what and what then? Decide whether to like or not, whether to let belong or not? Accepting is difficult, to think one’s head is not the only head there is, that we are not one consciousness, one right kind of form nor shape.

What is sick where illness does not show? What is wrong there where nothing is wrong? What is there where it is not accepted to be what I feel?

For many reasons. First I thought I have nothing inside of me. I felt terrible all the time. I tried to smile. It felt phony. I refused to believe I was nothing although the messages I have been given all my life were exactly that and I just didn’t understand why. It was no wonder I felt so awful and empty and eventually found out I had been depressed for a very long time. That was me some time ago.

Quiet is something puzzling to me for this reason, a very personal reason, an ongoing accusation which is against the quiet that I have felt is interesting because it is so belittling. Quiet is someone not participating, someone with a flaw or lack, something is wrong, something is missing when we are quiet, in all quiet, in silence like there is and was nothing there to say, but there is a demand to constant talk.
For various reasons quiet is interesting, for our need to hide away and step over, deny quiet existence as pathetic and ridiculous. How we build on noise, expect noise and sound to have all the meaning we need and have, noise that equals content and something is given into the world with sound, with words, with talk that never stops.