SILENCE. I UNDERSTAND that many people say that they love it, but the way I love the quietness is a bit different. To me, silence is like music. Sure, nothing is heard, but that's the beauty of it all. In the silence, you can hear anything.

The slightest whisper is nothing; I can hear it. The infamous, metaphorical pin falling onto a carpeted floor. I heard that too. You know, the world goes on with people hustling and bustling, murmuring and muttering, laughing and crying. But unless you tune in, you won't hear anything.

After all, isn't silence golden?

I prefer the quiet. I prefer when no one's around to yell at me, or when no one makes rude comments about who I am and the way I act. Instead, I let my silence and my photography do the speaking for me. It's easier this way, and it expresses myself far better than I ever could. It's also partially the reason why I don't talk. Perhaps, my only wish is that on the one day I will speak, the words that come out of my mouth will be sincere and beautiful, just like the photos I capture. Just like the world and nature itself.

Just like my silence.

Perhaps the meaning of life is taken too simply. Breathe. Sleep. Live. Repeat. But there should be more than just the same repeated cycle of breathing, sleeping, and living. Each day should be lived to the fullest and new, creative things should be uncovered. You should be waking up to each sunrise with an idea in your mind: what are you going to accomplish today? We are all trapped in a bubble of comfort, and sometimes it's best to stray out of that bubble.

But I am a huge hypocrite.

↛

I stand on my toes precariously, reaching out my arms to clip the last piece of film onto the string dancing from one side of the room to the other. Taking one of the three clothespins out of my mouth, I clip the drying photo to the string, elevating my one leg to gain support.

And then, the voices begin to filter in. . .

"Emily, explain to me just how being a dishwasher is supposed to alleviate our financial situation right now?"

"Well how else are we going to pay the mortgage, Jim? The hospital bills? If you have an answer, please don't be afraid to voice your opinions. I would love to hear them, honey."

↛

Humming a light tune under my breath, I retract my arms and feel around for the familiar mahogany desk, holding the rest of my photos just waiting to be dried. The darkroom was inevitably dark, but after years of practice, I have managed to memorize every crook and cranny in this tiny, claustrophobic room. My sanctuary. Aha. There is my stack. Oh, it was an exceptional day today for photographs. I had went down to the park and took pictures of these ducks who seemed wonderfully--

"Don't you dare use that tone with me. This isn't a joke. This is our life. Get that through your thick skull."

"My thick skull? You do absolutely nothing all day! I'm the one working, Jim. I'm the one who's keeping this family alive!"

↛

Ah, I think my pictures are done! With a small smile, I stand on my toes again, and reach, reach, reach--

"Alive? This family is alive? Take a good look around, Em! We're in debt. Your job isn't supporting us anymore. My father is in the hospital with cancer and your selfish ass isn't even considering that his life is at stake? You leave the entirety of our hospital bills to me! And not to mention your daughter--"

"Don't you dare bring Eleanor into this!"

My hands stop, frozen midway. I feel them start to tremble and I balance the balls of my heels on the ground once more, simply an unwavering statue. In my darkroom. My sanctuary. My prison.

"And why not? It's hardly my fault she doesn't speak! She can't even look either of us in the eyes!"

"Who's problem do you think is that? It's not my fault she locks herself up in that bloody darkroom all the time. And her camera: I wasn't the one who it to gave her!"

"She has a talent!"

"She has an escape, Jim."

"From you."

--

I suppose I can wait until tomorrow to take down my photos. Perhaps they still need some drying after all.

"Don't you put her mental state onto me! This conversation is over. Eleanor! Get down here! Dinner time."

Maybe tomorrow, I can head down to the park again. I saw these lovely roses near the walkways. Blood red with drops of dew still plastered onto their petals. And the ever-so-sharp thorns that pierce your skin. Oh, what lovely thorns. I like them better than the roses themselves.

"Eleanor!" I hear my mother's agitated voice yell once more and I walk over to the door. My gaze catches the clock on the side.

6:27 PM. Right on schedule.

Each day is a cycle, I say to myself. And one day, I intend to break it. Opening it gently so the light in the hallways wouldn't destroy my film, I slip through and enter reality.