There’s a comfort in the silence that
falls in the elevator. My apartment
building is full of studios inhabited by
single students and the odd yuppie.
None of us make enough noise to be
It’s our unwritten agreement:
you don’t disturb me, I don’t
Some would call this silence oppressive,
comment that breaking it is tantamount
to tossing a pebble at a mug.
It’s bound to destroy the
I prefer to call it soothing. A digital clock rests on the
nightstand: no ticking. The fridge was traded for a
model that hums quietly, white noise, perfectly
acceptable to be buried under music. TV plays loud
enough to drown it all out.
My misophonia remains largely untriggered, here:
I made it so this place can’t imprison me in my
mind, locking me into flight or fight mode, and I
revere the peace.
I filled in the blanks of this apartment to
be an asylum from the world, an asylum
from the messiness of my own mind,
and revel in it.