What makes silence so utterly captivating? Like watching a car-crash, we stand mesmerised, aghast, but mawkishly glued to the unfolding endless nothingness. Silence ensnares the senses it fails to effect. It's a juxtaposition within itself; its existence negates its ability to exist. With silence you have nothing, but without silence you have nothing. Silence is surely then everything? Did Nietzsche not argue that what was unsaid was more important than what was said? Does silence not act as a parameter, a boundary, a mark, a signifier? Does it not hint at what remains below the surface, rippling across the subconscious of our conversations? We extrapolate, seek meaning, and endlessly interpret silence: we confess a thousand sins, commit a thousand lies, perpetrate a thousand tears. We will strive our very hardest to avoid silence, even though silence is more important than anything we will ever say, see, hear, or feel.
Silence truly is everything.
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