My house is nice at night. Quiet. There’s no one yelling, no doors slamming; it’s almost peaceful. I can’t remember the last time I actually felt at peace at home. Even now though, with everyone asleep, I still don’t feel calm. Being here is actually the worst place to relax. Feeling peace is not the same as feeling calm, because when you’re calm your head is quiet too. Deep down inside I know that my calm may not be possible. Too much has happened to be fully quiet in there. Sometimes I write fiction to feed my mind, but mostly it ends up being about myself. In these quiet hours, that is when I write, when I focus, and dig for what I’m trying to say. Sometimes I can’t figure out what I’m thinking. Do you know what I mean? It’s like your brain disconnects and you can’t form a coherent thought. Your hand just runs over the page or keyboard, but there is no solid or real connection.

I am surrounded by the quiet while I sit awake writing, but the quiet is a noise that is rattling constantly. It's distracting. It’s a distant sound that becomes deafening when no one is around to pause it.

If this silence had a color it would be black, in fact, I’m positive it is black. It has no shape, but it is a living entity, it doesn’t breathe, but it can scream. It screams so loudly that no one can hear it in this sleeping house. No one wrestles awake, no one startles. No one, but you, or me. It’s creeping, crawling, slithering, taking over everything. It doesn’t care who you are. It only wants those moments of panic, of hate, of fear, and then it will move on, and leave you feeling nothing.

I push myself to jolt free, break out of disillusionment, make myself leave the silence so I can forget the blackness, and move into a calm. I know that it may not last long if I can find it, but when I do it’ll allow me to sleep. Tomorrow will be the first day I will feel rested in weeks. When I wake I won't remember writing this, because silence makes you forget.