To read the original version in the author's native language click here
I was in the metro, (lost) in the silence of my thoughts, crossing that city so big that it makes me feel small and alone.
In the silence, a lot about ourselves can be uncovered. We give space to dive deeper and let afloat of the calm waters what, out of shame, had been buried in the mud.
There is a reason for everything and there is a reason for silence – it can be imposed, or it can be a choice.
My silence had been a choice. The steps became shorter, the street became narrower, the moon was hiding from the night, and the rootless cold burnt, but the heaviest silence of all remained. Silent mind, silent life.
How many times did I ask for a break to the whirling thoughts, to the rustle of the restless day-to-day, to the thirst of making everything happen faster? And now the storms have ceased and what remains is the silence of the city, the calm of the night.
But there are days in which calm, silence and routine cannot satisfy me. I have already forgotten the times when I asked for peace.
The thing is that silence, many times, is scary because it easily becomes loneliness.
And every human being fears the cold of the soul that is felt when one is left alone in the world.
But there is a time for everything and there is a time for silence.
And when my world is silent, I read. I read because the voices fill the empty space. Because the books, in silence, are capable of bringing the dead back to life; they keep in peace the lives of heroes and villains; they store knowledge and conserve the secrets of the human soul.
It’s incredible the power of the words that, being immune to the passage of time, reveal to the reader, in silence, so many stories in between the lines.
It’s ironic how (our) human existence is so limited and short, that even the ink of printed words on a piece of paper can outlive us.
It’s curious how books live longer than people.
Maybe time is nothing more than an illusion that human beings created, which turned against their own creator, poisoning his days. Those who have too much time don’t appreciate it; those who have it counted would pay for immortality. And those who still don’t have enough silence to think about it are forced to live by clocks, schedules, and deadlines that limit creativity, liberty, and dreams.
And what about immortality?! It is just one more meaningless quest, which by rootless ambition and ungratefulness made a nest in the hearts of Men since the beginning of times. But if Men were actually given all the time in the world, we would find a way to ruin it. Because with time would come silence, and with it solitude.
The truth is, no one knows how to live with the time they have.
And I don’t know what to do with the silences that fill my days.