The sounds of silence

 

I’m an only child.

 

I’m pretty weird anyways but being an old child equals extra weirdness. I like my own shit. I like to be left alone a lot and I like the quiet. Steve is my antithesis. He thrives on being social, is (was) a big eater, he’s reactive instead of proactive.

 

When I fell in love with this odd man I didn’t quite understand how he adequately functioned in the world. How did he exist without ANALYZING his every move, PLAN for at least 3 days before engaging in all activities and if were matched against a grizzly bear would win a cheeseburger eating competition no questions asked. WHATTA A CREATURE!

 

When I fell in love with Steve I also fell in love with his family. There are lots of members, they’re loud, love whole heartedly, are fun, crazy, fun, wild, silly and FUN. They are close, open but also all their own people. How did they do it?? I felt like I was studying when I was around them. Taking notes on their behaviors and figuring out what made them tick. I wanted to be more like them. I wanted them to be in my life more. They had heart. I could feel it. 

 

I had an echo cardiograph to make sure my heart was strong enough for chemo. Also I should mention that I’ve taken to pronouncing it as CHemo instead of KEYmo. Makes me feel like I’m vacationing in Italy rather than receiving intravenous poison that is simultaneously saving my life while killing ALL of my cells. 

 

Ok, back to my heart. 

 

I saw it. Like up close and personal. In real life. I witnessed MY ACTUAL HEART beating inside of my body. It was beautiful. Strong. Consistent. Getting shit done. Intense. Layered. I felt grateful to meet her for the first time and sorry that it took me so long. 

 

The procedure took longer than anticipated because I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to learn her idiosyncrasies. See her “work” and tell her how appreciative I was.

 

I didn’t want to say goodbye. 

 

I love photographs. I love being able to look at a photograph and recollect feelings that had exuded during a particular point. I like collecting feelings that manifest during moments. That sounds maniacal. “Ya, no I’m not a “PHOTOGRAPHER” my correct title is actually “FEELINGS COLLECTOR.”

 

I wanted a picture of my heart. To have a photograph of the organ that was sustaining my life. And do you know what the tech said when I asked her if I could take a picture of my own heart? No. The bitch said “No.” 

 

BUT BITCH IT’S MY HEART. MINE. I don’t want a picture of YOUR heart or some RANDOM heart I want a picture of my own heart. It would be like visiting the Statue of Liberty and not taking a picture. Worse. It would be as if the Statue of Liberty lived inside of your body and you finally got a chance to meet her but couldn’t take a picture because some bitch said it was against the rules.

 

So I left. 

 

JUST KIDDING I told that bitch to shut the hell up and I was taking a picture of my heart because she can’t tell me my business. 

 

Seeing my heart in real life, serving real life whole heartedness, added to the progression of the puzzle that I’m attempting to amount to. She was fierce. Silent but so loud. A symbol of power without showing off.

 

I want to find solace in silence. It doesn’t seem like it should be hard to do. Then why is it? Where in lies the struggle to embrace silence?  Because silence is loud as fuck that’s why. Thick. Dense. Hard to dig through. 

 

I want to cut the noise while appreciating the static. You hear that? Ya me neither.