Silence is in the faucet.
A midnight with the sound of the tap, dripping. The result of an undetermined twist of the faucet handle, an attitude we apply to everything menial in life. This sort of superiority over petty situations; nothing will go wrong anyways, and even if it does rise into a challenging conflict, “I can slay its head with a swift intervention”. This superiority breeds indifference and consequently, inaction. A loosely spun faucet knob will not cause a flood. Even a child laugh at such probability. We are older than maturity itself.
It is not the drip that will drown a soul, it is the inaction. Habitualizing inaction over small and petty things will grow into bigger feelings of indifference. Indifference is a shadow which feeds off the absence of light. It is first the darkest shade in daylight, and as the sun sets, it becomes the very world we stake our lives in. Such attitude is the spring for inaction, it thrives off the absence of appreciation; being indifferent about the small and petty things will rot a soul.
Midnight grips the world. The faucet leaks, in its fixed yet unsubstantiated amount, drop by drop, dash against the sink wall. Its miniscule clashing vibrates the air starkly. A pin drop would be overwhelmed by the sound of the water droplets. Bit by bit it fills the air. In that moment, silence is the loudest noise, as the only voice which slices it is from the dripping faucet. The smallest unit of movement in the room, becomes the only opponent for the quiet. Silence; it amplifies all insignificant and petty things we manage to hush. As the droplets become the clearest voice, so does the smaller questions in our heads that we shrugged off in the morning. As the night grows, all these insignificant and petty things become monsters, keeping our eyes open and heart racing, a gift from the fight or flight response our body is armored with. We are on guard for danger. There are things lurking in our mind, so it is inexistent in our temporal vicinity, yet our eyes refuse to surrender.
Suddenly the inactions we accumulate harmlessly become an avalanche of sleeplessness. We are overwhelmed. We blame the morning for arriving a bit too late. The faucet is where silence flows, and our indifference, is where silence was birthed. We are bearing its deafening cries. We cradle it until the sun rules again. We do this to ourselves — every day.
