What Ifs
I don't like quiet. Both kinds of quiet.
When things get quiet, I get worried.
Usually, it's just my hearing aids. Dead batteries.
It's when I find myself quiet that bothers me. Exposed and stunned, like a deer being pursued through the woods, and bursting into a clearing. Whatever barely-evadable predator that was close behind must still be here, but now is stalking around the edges of this new arena, crouched to pounce from whatever unanticipated direction it likes. Unbearably quiet, vulnerable, and suddenly victim to whatever lies beyond the treeline. Trapped, every chirp becomes a growl, every gleam of moonlight off dew is the sheen of licked-clean fangs. A distant snap is the subtle herald of more doom approaching.
All we want is to be back in the forest; darting, dodging like quicksilver, navigating around the trunks of so many trees the way blood flows through our veins. Back where everything is a blur.
Animal impulse demands our legs to propel us back into it. But, eyes peeled and senses steeled, we can only react now.
Then it hits. Like deep black water, the coldness begins somewhere toward the back of where thoughts come from, and seeps into consciousness. Permeates. Grips. Instinct still keeps the body tense and alert, but the mind is paralyzed. Somewhere out there, the beast is still stalking and waiting for the right moment, but right now, the cold poison clouds it all.
All the right turns, and left turns, and what was left behind, brought along, and how I wound up here, where to go next, and what I should've done, couldn't stop, let go of, hid inside, destroyed, fell in love with, and should've felt something about. The quiet is overpowering.
My lungs fill up with it, and I breathe deeply, suffocating. I fight to center, and stay focused on the peril at hand. I have to get out of here. The only way to expunge the vileness of it is to move, return to the rapid speed and motion I am accustomed to. Back to the blur. This quiet is killing me. There is also what waits in the dark, ready to slash with calculated precision, just as I bound into the trees. I could try to stand and fight.
Leaves rustle, a rapid and unexpected feeling of panic rises, and I respond without question. Bolting back for the forest, the cloud in my head immediately dissipates. The moonlight on my back sheds in a flash as I dip back into the tangled and familiar mess of the woods.
A cacophony of frantically-displaced underbrush pursues me, and I smile.
Escaped the quiet. Back to the blur.
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