The Twilight Of Silence

By Zoe Parra

I was trembling as I walked up to the microphone of the church, where the sorrowful people who had shared moments with my grandfather stared at me. It was one year since he passed away; one year since he told me that my quietness is too loud to be understood in this world. I heard the echo of my faltering voice bouncing between the walls, just like my thoughts bounced among my memories, my notes, and my need to breathe deeply to hold back my tears. My words were beginning to revive, after years of wondering if they were good enough to be heard. 

When I was little, I had no trouble speaking my mind, complaints, or opinions. But as I grew up, I felt that not everyone deserved my words. A lingering sensation of valuing my ideas much more than I perceived people did, slowly fueled my precaution about whom I share them with. Why, then, was I at last willingly letting my words out in front of so many people? Somehow, I felt that this would make up for all the times where I had remained silent despite having much to say—the emptiness that was left after my grandfather was gone made me realize that if I don’t talk out of fear, I won’t be able to look back at memories without regret dampening their warmth. Maybe not everybody would listen to me, but at least I needed to make sure I was heard.

This is how I discovered silence number three. This silence—the one after the most truthful words are spoken—is the reason why I prefer large crowds rather than small groups. After a speech, silence is laden with reflection and gratitude; whereas in one-to-one interactions, if any, it is disturbingly long, so much that I unconsciously find myself filled with hesitation. I am instantly reminded of how powerful words are, but also that it is up to people to feel their power. It is disquieting for me to witness how the beauty of words is misused, and sometimes I wish people would keep quiet. This is silence number two. The silence that is better than forceful words. This silence is authentic, observing, and necessary to prevent faking; to stop pretending. 

Silence number one remains unknown to many, but it’s by far my favorite one. People find it hard to believe that sadness can be a part of me, because, how could it, if I have achieved so many things that others long to achieve? Truth is, the reason for my sadness is not about my inability to fulfill my dreams, but rather, that for every new dream come true, I wonder if I deserve it. Why is it that when people think of me, they remember my successes instead of remembering me? Obligated to turn off my inner voice filled with doubts, I found this silence, which is now a refuge for when the outer world gets too loud, too heavy to bear.

While all these silences have transformed my isolation into independence and strength, I yearn to befriend silence number zero: the silence that will no longer be my only place where I can feel confident. Now, it’s the one that comes every time after I speak, in the form of regret of having spoken. It’s the silence of my inner self, wishing I had stayed quiet, but also that I wasn’t that quiet. It’s the silent fear of people finding my words unnecessary, or, what’s worse, them liking better the me who interacts easily and reacts with words. 

Silence number zero drowns me with diffidence and outrage, but it should be the one finally freeing me from this harmful silence. After bearing the echoes of my long-lived quietness in that large, cold church, I realize that perhaps conversations are like an approaching sunset. Because, have you ever felt this ominous haunting as night falls, before you realized how beautiful the twilight would be?

By Zoe Parra