wabi - sabi

cinque

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚍..."

Whenever I reminisce about my childhood, it's not the playgrounds or the laughter of peers I recall, but the four walls of my home. My mom, even now, dislikes the idea of letting her kids out of the house, having grown up in a conservative household as well. This upbringing felt more elitist than protective, despite our modest means.

My mom would tell me how content I was by myself. I would play by myself and read storybooks. There wasn't much to talk about. Do you know that one quiet, boring kid in school? That was me.

Sometimes, it could be frustrating to get so used to the loneliness. Outwardly, it looks more like independence or an enjoyment of solitude, but truly, it's nothing more than an invisible force pushed upon oneself to dismiss the feelings of loneliness. To get used to it, I suppose. It can be infuriating at times, yet I've become so comfortable with the silence for so long now.

Truth be told, I would very much prefer to write my thoughts rather than speak them.

In first grade, it was a vivid memory of mine in which my classmates played at the back of the classroom and I remained in my seat, not mingling with others. The interaction had been easier for the younger me, yet after I had developed such distrust of other people due to constant betrayal by my closest friends, I had become more antisocial as time passed—or was it a trauma response?

I often remained in my seat, watching my classmates form bonds throughout the year while I kept my mouth shut. In seventh grade, a classmate asked me if my saliva didn't dry out from silence. That comment stung and highlighted how my quietness was perceived as strange.

As if an utterance of a single word is the most difficult thing to do.

For years, I hated how isolated I was. I certainly wanted to expand my circle and talk to people fearlessly and confidently, yet I had often fallen victim to social anxiety. It did not help when a friend—the most toxic one I had—often pointed out how lonely I was. By the time I succeeded in interacting with a seatmate, she laughed in my face, mocking me for finally having a friend apart from her. You know the usual manipulator tricks of entrapping their victim into believing how cruel other people can be, but not herself, and she should only be the one to trust?

I had fallen victim to that.

My relationship with silence is somehow incredibly complex. I grew with it; I grew similar to it. Then, as an adolescent, I hated it, went insane surrounded by it, and despised every single bit of it. Subsequently, I've come to love it again after spending so much time isolated. Yet I also hate how I'm still so quiet—too quiet—until now.

I remember panicking whenever I and my friends—my few trusted ones—could not talk about something. I immediately thought of something to fill the silence. It's not the silence that scares me, but how they might react and what they might think if I don't talk. I say nonsense, and I stutter. They were even my closest people, but I was still so scared to be silent. I think it was the people-pleaser in me.

I felt so insecure, knowing it'd forever be a flaw of mine to feel so odd in society. I feel like I am too quiet, and I need so much more time to warm up to other people to build a relationship with them. I was so insecure with people who just 'hit it off' naturally and did not feel so conscious of themselves or of knowing how to talk. Because, in this society, if you cannot raise your voice to be heard, you will immediately be considered an outcast.

For some reason, guilt creeps up my skin whenever I see the people I know—people whom I had the opportunity to know—pass by me and act like we hadn't had the chance to talk at all. Or the people who reached out to me but I did not know how to respond to them. Or the people I want to talk to but could never get to know.

Quietness meant more of a disability to me than a gift. It was so difficult because society planted in my head how shameful it is to be too quiet. To be stared at so indifferently by other people, to be so out of place amongst the masses, even towards your own family,.

However, it occurred to me that silence is something people often avoid because they simply cannot deal with it. And because I'm a person who's used to it, I was making them uncomfortable with this silence, and they would choose to get away from this hurricane as soon as possible.

As time passed, I met people I felt more comfortable with, and they were the ones who filled in the silence—or rather, there was no silence; we'd talk for hours, and it felt more natural. It wasn't forced at all. It didn't feel that way. I didn't have to pretend in front of them. I was transparent and open to people who weren't fazed by my silence.

I realized that maybe I truly am too quiet for others, but I wonder if I would truly change myself for them. I cannot stand to change myself for them. Maybe I am odd, but I'm comfortable with myself and my own company, so I won't even try to fill in the silence now just so it won't be awkward. I'd stay quiet to intimidate more. And I would gladly spend time with myself rather than with people who make me feel as if being quiet is a defect.

For now, the one thing I also seek in others or in romance is someone comfortable with the silence between us. Even the lack of words can be peaceful and therapeutic, not forcing some conversation that isn't exactly good for our souls. Of course, I despise small talk, if that isn't obvious. I even despise living in a home full of chaos and loud parents. But uniqueness creates individuality, doesn't it?

As for me, I'd continue sitting down in my seat at the back of the classroom, and I'd remain my most silent, unbearable self.

Maybe society shouldn't point out how quiet a person is; maybe they could lower their voices too so that the world's not flooded by their opinions, right? It's technically a curse to have to adjust to a society that eventually creates the image of the quiet kid as a dull human being. As if substance came with the loudness now, does it?

Everyone has something to offer; they must only have the patience to watch how one unlocks one's potential.

love lots,

aru.