Thoughts?

I'm not sure where this came from or what the intent is, but I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out...possibly the opening to The Murder of a Quiet Man. A story I sort of started a while back and got shifted off of.

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Silence is, perhaps, the most complex word in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. And even cruelty. 

To be silent in a judicial sense is seen to mean consent. Which is too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. Silence in a relationship is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is over...or has become comfortable enough to quiet the need for speech. 

For Simon, silence was a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but he had found the easiest way to achieve silence was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening. 

Another would be at the end of a thunderstorm that had declared its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel.

Sometimes he even achieved that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Just New Age in a classical style. During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. He would not think beyond the immediate. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. And life would realign itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year.