A Hot Stuffy Day

The air is thick, like a hot stuffy summer day but it is fall. You don’t suffocate because you are used to the tension in the air. The house is silent, but loud due to the burgundy rug that lie on the floor beneath the soft noise of the radio. To some, silence drives them mad. A day with no human interaction is just as wasted as the couches open for family to sit but they never do. It is how we perceive social interaction that leads us to believing what silence truly is. Silence is breathing the stuffy air but having no room for it to fester into words. The words stay stuck in the throat as if to come out at some point, but when they do they are punished for escaping. Holding your breath becomes simpler when the air gets thicker, you become accustomed to how you’ve learned to breathe it. It is not holding your breath that is the difficulty but it is what is kept internal that is that more harmful. You can go a lifetime without speech, but the silence is what drives you to madness. The radio sings cheerful songs that remind us of happier days, happier times, happier lives. When the radio is silent , its a reminder of what remains. The silent, empty, room stays and the air gets thick again, You are ill of it. They sit across from one another. Not close, but not far. The distance between the sofa and the radio remains and the loud burgundy carpet screams, and the thickness of the air worsens with the distance. The silence breaks, the air is thicker than ever, it becomes stronger and stronger with every word and soon the distance is closed and the air suffocates you. And by the time the loudness has done even slight damage, you remain silent, the suffocation serves you right for trying to thin the air. The silence will drive you mad and you know it will, the noisy radio turns itself on again as if what had happened was normal, as if the air was not suffocating you, and the words weren't being shot at you like darts to a board. You increase the distance. Step by step, you are farther and farther from the loud burgundy rug,  and the distant sofa. The radio becomes more silent, as if to be a silhouette of what was once a distraction but now a peaceful hum. Further and further until the air gets thinner and thinner . Its cold but encouraging , its then warm but inviting. It is silent but with every intention of loudness because you have endured the silence for long enough. You embrace the brazen noise, with open arms, and closer than ever. It is done, you are at peace.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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