My Soul Is Loud
On the experience of having an inner world that refuses to be quiet — what it means to be deeply observant, intensely feeling, and creatively alive.
I woke up feeling light and energized this morning. My eyes opened to see tall, green trees swaying through the glass of the rectangular windows above my bed. I wiped the sleep from my face, applied a menagerie of creams and oils on my cheeks, (a generous gift from my host family who usually has a surplus of leftover beauty products from business deals with equally generous clients), pulled a trusted and worn pair of denim jeans over my legs, a black t-shirt over my head, and cucumber deodorant under my armpits. I stumbled out of the front door with a croissant in one hand and my adidas in the other, ready for the strangeness today might hold.
I have officially resided in Connecticut for two weeks now and my mind and body are beginning to believe it. There is always a strange transitional period when moving to a new city. In my case, a new state that sits far from home. When first settling in, I behave like a migrating bird, scanning the land and sky, snatching twigs and leaves and strange scraps along my journey, so that a cozy nest can form. My first scavenge always leads to a local shop. I must sink my claws into some third place almost immediately. The requirements are simple: it must have coffee, beer, and couches. A place I can go to read and write and think and romanticize and cry and flirt and paint and breathe and listen.
I must admit, I think I am writing from this "third place" now. It is dimly lit, drenched in the smell of pale ales and overpriced cologne, and bustling with the typical middle-aged folk that still have a bit of mischief left in them. This noisy crowd is not yet shackled by the daunting demands of knee-deep domesticity. Or maybe they are, and tonight will be another one of those "I got caught up at the office, honey" texts again. Who am I to speculate? Who am I not to?
I do this often. Sink myself into the largest, most worn-down couch in the room and observe. After all, I am a self-proclaimed writer and the mundane happenings of others serves as an easy, low-hanging fruit of inspiration. Life is always twisting and humming right in front of us. Why would I not write about it?
I think my (sometimes painful) attention to such details is what has kept my life full and brimming with questions and hope. I am perpetually fascinated by the outer world. The long chain-link fence next door, the single glitching light bulb hanging above the rafters of this place begging to be fixed, the melancholy bartender with kind eyes and a tattoo problem, the partly dying Spider Plant on the window sill by the bathroom, and of course, the thick energy of sedation and pleasure and post-work-relief hanging in the night air.
And then there is me. There was a time where I could only write about my inner world and wanderings and heartfelt introspections. It felt as if I did not have enough time or paper or words to get it all out fully and ardently. A few years went by, and suddenly it became the now. A few years went by, and now my insides are quiet. So quiet. Perhaps it's a right of passage of being freshly 24. Surely this is not a unique experience. I know better than to feel special in my suffering and squabbling now. Perhaps it's the 100mg of sertraline shoved down my throat each night. Perhaps it's whiplash from too many years of too much noise. Maybe the galaxies behind my eyes decided to take a rain check. Perhaps my brain needed a break, a long winter, a hot cup of tea.
I have grown very fond of this quietness, but it poses a potent problem. Much like that shit-saying about darkness and light, there can be no sound without silence. If this logic is applied, then the inverse must be true also. I have not escaped the noise. It has just slid to the background for a while, waiting for the right time to resurface. I guess what I am trying to say is that I know it is only a matter of time before it all spills over again- the thoughts, the intense self-inspections, the feelings. The inner world will always have the final word.
I am torn over this sentiment. I fought very hard for this stillness. There was a time when I desperately sought it out, scratching at my ears til they bled, until the noise stopped. But that was then, and this is now. Peace of mind is pleasant, but I truly believe the best and brightest of us all are a little bit mad. You have to be- to not only experience but welcome the full range of the human condition with open arms. It is even more absurd to transmute this acceptance into something tangible: a poem, a sculpture, a painting. And then certainly the most ludicrous act of all: to share it with the world.
I'd like to embrace the chaos again, no matter how loud it gets. Maybe this time I can turn it into a song. Only time will tell. For now, I will finish my second Guinness of the night and take the long road home.