Imposition of Silence

This is so rare:  no family, no voices, no television screaming in the background.  No one wants anything.  Outside is even better, but it’s a different kind of quiet.  I hear birds talking to each other from every direction, and a woodpecker hammering away at a tree somewhere nearby.  The squirrels are running about in the tree over my head, so tiny pieces of debris occasionally fall onto the deck.  A dog’s collar jingling next door as it walks around smelling for animals.  A revving engine off in the distance.  There are children’s voices floating up from the park, though I can’t actually hear any of the words distinctly. 

The weather is perfect, just chilly enough to need a sweatshirt.  No wind, just a hint of breeze.  The light is ideal, dusk settling over the yard and making the grass somehow greener and the flowers brighter.   The hammock looks inviting as it hangs there motionless over the sand.  I could build a bonfire in the pit and watch the flames dance when the sun is gone.  I could just sit and watch the shadows grow and listen to the peaceful cacophony of suburbia. 

But here I am inserting words into the silence, because words run through my brain constantly.  I can’t turn my brain off.  Ever.  I so envy people who can just relax and sit and be content.  I always have to impose something on my surroundings.  I come outside to relax, and I end up worrying about money or thinking about work or feeling guilty for not doing some menial task I’ve been avoiding.  It’s a flaw.  Happiness is supposed to come from within, and most of what is inside my head is troublesome.   

I’m not sure where to go from here.  Maybe because I’m not really sure where I am.