It’s so quiet.
Except the sound of my pen moving across the page, the tick-tock-tick-tock of the clock.
How many ticks, how many tocks make up the full minute?
The birds tweeting outside amidst the passing traffic. All this noise yet it’s so quiet.
The intermittent slam of a door in the flat upstairs as the neighbours move about to and fro.
The snatch of conversation floating past my window. It’s so quiet, yet there’s so much noise.
Footsteps step across my ceiling. Pacing, running, slowing to a stop.
A shout, another door slams, all in the space of a minute. It’s so quiet, yet there’s so much noise.
The cars pass by, an occasional honk, a sudden squeal of tyre scraping the tarmac. More shouts, and some curses. It’s so quiet, yet there’s so much noise.
A door is opened before it slams shut. Where are you going? Ok. Be careful out there.
I’m left alone with only my thoughts for company.
