On Being Quiet
The world is too loud.
That's the constant thought in my head, whether I'm walking out and about, at a gathering, or doing work with others.
The world is too loud.
It's felt that way for a long time and only more so as I've gotten older. I've heard or read many people talk about how it's just exhausting being with or near groups, how quickly they feel overwhelmed or have their nerves blunted by what feels to them an unrelenting cacophony of noise that doesn't seem to bother others.
If we were to ever meet, you'd find me a quiet person. It's not shyness, if I say little it's not my being rude or disinterested; I simply don't have anything of value or interest to add.
That's me. If I've nothing to say, I say nothing. Silence isn't awful, it's not something to be feared or avoided.
Indeed, I love comfortable silences between people.
Would that more people shared that. Or at least respect people that wish to say nothing.
I've long since learnt to bite back the irritation that rises within me when someone asks me what I'm reading, what it is I'm eating or why I look upset.
If I ever tell them what I'm reading, they invariably say “Oh...” and move on. “Is it nice?” when it's about food and “Are you sure?” when I tell them I'm fine.
I like to think a lot of these kind of questions are simply to fill in the quiet; they don't expect extended, detailed dissertations on my thoughts, quality of the book I'm reading or the food I'm eating, neither are they interested in the answer itself.
As for why I look upset, that's just resting bitch face syndrome.
I don't expect anyone to change who they are just to comfort me.
I just feel that the world is too loud.