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Whoever thought that being so apart, alone here with our thoughts, would be so, so loud?

Even the Thursday 8pm punctuation of pans and hands,

From the terraces, flat shares, estates and bungalows now falls silent.

But this silence builds,

And builds,

And builds.

Like white noise, absorbing the absence of street traffic.

Absorbing the void of kids laughing (or lying),

a drink in hand, fanning along the street,

prickling in anticipation of a fight, or a pash, on the way back from the pub.

These sounds of life are now replaced by silence.

They are memories never realised,

like the clouds, electric in their desire, that ache to clash, but dissolve in on themselves.

And the silence builds,

And builds,

And builds.

It’s a frequency we couldn’t quite tune into before because we were all so distracted by gossip, noise cancelling headphones, breaking news and hot air.

Be still. Suspend all other sounds.


A drumbeat

A pulse. Deep and base and important.

It glows as if it’s white light, not white noise.

An uncomfortable cacophony that we cannot, or should not, live with anymore.

And the silence builds,

And builds,

And builds.

It crackles in anticipation.


we know

There’s a storm coming.

By Lydia Ragoonanan



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