Quietus Her friends said that the measure of a good relationship, when all things were through, wher
Quietus Her friends said that the measure of a good relationship, when all things were through, where the conversations, how they would wander and meander, lengthen before loping over a broad range of topics. A man to spend your life with was a man you could have a conversation with. Respectfully, because she was that sort of girl, she disagreed. A men to spend your life with wasn’t a man you could have a conversation with; anyone could fill the world with noise, train themselves into energetic discourse and witty banter. No, for her a man to spend her life with was someone you could occupy a silence with. Comfortable silence. A mutual observation of nothing, neither of them moving, speaking, touching, or anything. Just lying there, perhaps staring into each other’s eyes, or just at the ceiling Out the window. Eyes closed. Feeling out the lack of sound as if it made them blind, one sense lost, four more having to pick up the slack. A silence to think in. Because that was it, really. It was becoming comfortable enough with something to let them into those most private of moments, when you let your mind wander free and allow thoughts to roam with utter autonomy. To have someone who could happily create that space with you, and then live in it for minutes, hours on end. Cultivate a silence and then just fucking enjoy it. Perhaps that was the fundamental difference between her and her friends, but she had more than enough noise in her life. She didn’t want to fill it up with more words, more space in her mind taken up with stuff that she didn’t want and didn’t need. She wanted a little peace and quiet, and someone to enjoy it with. -- source link
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