I wonder if Debussy felt this way, if Faulkner did, or Monet. I wonder, as I fall into the uniquely barren lusciousness of the night, if those or any other greats ever felt the way I feel in this moment; as if the slightest sound borne over the bitterly cold air could shatter me like a bullet to a windowpane.
I long not for solace, but for silence.
Even my own shallow breathing prickles against the black tension of soundlessnes, so I hold my breath for 37 seconds just to hear the song of night unencumbered by its ebb and flow.
Of course, it cannot last. I must breathe, legs must walk, mouths of everyone I’ve ever met will surely talk. I know the thrumming of footfalls from inside the tunnel wasn’t designed to tear me to pieces, but it does all the same.
I glance up, relinquishing my tenuous, minute solitude to whoever needs me to exist elsewhere. I am disappointed, nearly heartbroken to let the moment go, but not surprised.