It’s been a big day: a birthday party for my daughter’s friends, my son is all sniffly and I have a serious case of can’t-eat-anything-anxiety which is kind of the worst. Someone is snoring but I think it’s probably the cat, she’s the loudest one of them all.
I have never liked the quiet. As a quiet person I found silence deafening and I’m well-aware of my loudness — my heavy footfalls, the way I knock stuff off ledges, my too-loud laugh. I’ve been filling my house with lo-fi music, a make-do since COVID happened and footy was cancelled, which has always, my entire life, been the soundtrack to the weekend. There’s a plane going overhead, but I read somewhere that a lot of those planes just have mail on them now. They are so rare that we wave to all of them for a long time, well, except at night of course.
When I lived in the country the silence was louder. And where I lived before I do now, new houses were constantly being constructed around us (three at one time for a few months), so it was nothing to hear work happening very early in the morning. But even then, the kids over the fence would play MIX 102.3 until their dad would come and yell ‘I don’t want to hear anymore MIX FM!’ But why choose MIX? It’s arguably not for the youth demographic.
In my anxiety-ridden state (a compound of growth, change, slight conflict, and reading about the worst person/most prolific children’s author who ever lived), I managed to submit something for a writing competition. The first incarnation of this story was 15 years ago and I really hope that it is published. But, if not, I guess I’ll post it here.
I had been saving up for months for a tablet and keyboard so I could be a proper writer when I go to cafes and not have to take my laptop. But it kind of seems obsolete now, plus, it seems, maybe I’m okay with the quiet after all.