Silence

There is a moment on certain days that I treasure.

On certain Tuesday nights, after I roll the bins out to the kerb for pickup the next day, I look up and down the street. At the right times, there are no cars and no people. It’s an unfamiliar sound, or lack thereof that I hear—silence.

If the conditions are just right, I can look up and see countless stars.

And if the conditions are really just right, I won’t have brought my phone with me.

The Bible talks about a prophet named Elijah who finds God, not in a great and powerful wind; not in a mighty earthquake; not in a roaring fire; but in the quiet—in a low whisper.

It’s often in these quiet moments that I find myself experiencing something… peculiar. Something other.

I see the blackness of vast space above me, and the myriad stars dotted throughout, and I wonder.

Time seems to stretch out in those times.

My thoughts are all-consuming, and yet easily laid aside. I can hear nothing, and yet I feel as though I can sense everything.

These times are fewer and farther in between.

As said, the conditions have to be just right. The moments come only on a certain night of the week, when there are no other distractions around—no cars, no people.

But the greatest distraction, the most difficult condition to fulfil, I find, is that my phone is not with me.

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