The Art of Silence

Because I don’t say much- that’s how I am

That’s how I’ve always been, conserved for myself.

Because my 8th grade English teacher told me I can’t start a sentence with a subordinating conjunction, but I don’t say much both ways, so there’s nothing this conjunction can subordinate to.

Because I can’t say much & the only way to find out is to look beyond my broken smile and my eyes.

Because in the comfort of my own home, I’ve been subordinating to so many loud voices that vibrate at a frequency much higher than mine, I’ve become the subordinating clause.

My room is the zone I don’t have to create unnecessary small talks in, or comment in words that stand against the ideas engraved in the folds of my brain, since second grade.

Because the only voice that amplifies mine, is my deepest silence.

Understand it however you want, but no rules can be broken.

This silence is a heartbeat that can pierce through my eyes and tell there’s something wrong, how it’s wrong, why it’s wrong, and when it did go wrong without making me speak a word.

My writing is subjective, even if you’d known me for longer than the twenty years I’ve stood around for, no one can really know what I actually mean.

type writer- Tumblr (songwriting tips and tricks)

I’ve always fiddled with the words I speak

That is because adding a conjunction instead of a full stop is considered illegal, against the rules, unallowed, strictly محرّم وفي دربه إلى الجحيم.

I’m presented with an idea, and I’m expected not to think it through.

Everyone knows I’m thinking it through, but do they also know I’m looking for over fifty other interpretations for it?

Am I allowed to announce my greatest findings, or shall I say… controversies?

Will I be a subject of taboo?

Will I lose blood?

I shall stay silent then.

“You’re a journalist, how are you not vocal?”

Exactly. My voice is heard whenever my profession is to be practiced, within the boundaries I was entitled to, by the history books, money, and patriarchy everyone seems to make a living out of today. I’m a journalist, I speak for the outspoken.

Once that hat is off and I’m back to regular human me, my voice is read on empty pieces of paper, tiny colored sticky notes, or are inked on my thighs with traces of red carved out with my nails. One minute later, my voice is beyond my skin, and within my blood.

flipping through pages- Tumblr

One of the replies I got when I asked about some topics to write about was “brainwashing the brain into thinking that the world is not against us”.

I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t need to brainwash anything. I know what it feels like to have the world stand against me

It’s a reality I’ve accepted long ago.

My mentality may be wrong, and not the necessary positive boost everyone expects, but It’s the truth.

A conception that it’s I against the world. Not in argument, but in process.

No one can be trusted, and I don’t blame anyone. There’s just too much competition!

The farthest my circle can expand to, is a “You and I against the world”

I will allow myself to partake in this world I was brought to, I will contribute to its development, I will coexist with nature, and respect all beings equally.

This means that the respect I give for a pigeon or a sheep for instance, is equivalent to the respect I shall give to those around me.

Reason is, pigeons are awesome- so are sheep.

What qualifies a human for higher respect when most don’t utilize their brains for anything? They’re just blindly following their surroundings, lectures, and lessons about the universe like sheep and they all move in cattle.

You see why I’m silent most of the time?

Because if I scream amongst a flock of pigeons, they will fly away and I will be left all alone.

I’m actually laughing at the ridiculousness of my choice of words, but it’s hearbreaklingly accurate.

My mother says she sometimes finds difficulty comprehending the words I write down.

“They’re too deep” she says

I don’t blame you mom.

I’m sorry the only source of sound I emit is rubricked in cubes.

My brother says I cry too much in my room (Am I allowed to say that? Was that crossing the line? Am I allowed to expose this? Will this create a shitload of bull on another episode of Gossip Girl?)

Yes, I do cry a lot in the comfort of my own room.

I am in touch with my feelings like no other is, and even if I have no reason to cry, I will cry if I’m unreasonably sad- “Arrest me”

I also cry from the stinging pain of the bitch slaps the world sometimes imprints on my face

Or the recollection of a time, when I was so little, so young, and so tiny, to do anything to help myself, but I was bitch slapped for being gullible

That slap still hushes me to the very day, I’ve always been forbidden to speak

Patriarchal, masculine divinity wants someone to live a normal life with a wife and a healthy child.

“No rules can be broken” I repeat

You dare gather the courage to ask why I’m so silent?

I wasn’t given an option then.

The world does not offer outstanding opportunities to speak up either

Vintage record player-Tumblr