so tiny, yet bringing forth such passion.
Causing joy, causing pain
sometimes one emotion
smothering the other.
Sometimes each vying for power.
I hear sounds never imagined before -
, doorbells ringing,
even lisps in the spoken words
of those Others I envisioned as perfect,
the auditory equivalent of beautiful celebrities.
(My own reality is deemed flawed, less-than,
certainly not beautiful,
unsure of where voices are coming from,
not hearing ends of words
and sometimes, guessing what those perfect
Others said, in an attempt to blend into their world.)
I hear unpleasant noise as well,
and the music on the radio sounds tinny,
not at all the way it does in my head.
All the noise and hustle and bustle of life
is tiresome and I long to arrive home,
take off my shoes and my hearing aids
and luxuriate in a muted world, my world,
where I hear things my way.
Flawed and imperfect, perhaps, but still, my reality.
My reality is not of total silence, as hearing people assume,
but of sound turned down,
of voices spoken softly,
of words not articulated clearly,
of people responding to unheard environmental cues.
My reality also means making a conscious decision
when to enter their reality.
If you are important enough to me,
I will perhaps - if my ears don't ache, if my brain can handle the stimuli -
choose to put those small, emotion-laden pieces of plastic
in my ears and join your world, your reality.
I can never be a total participant in your world -
too many missed cues, too many lips I cannot read -
but you forget that and get angry or impatient with me when I look
blankly at you or smile and nod.
This does not make me want to spend more time in your world,
It does not seem like a kind world, a forgiving world.
I prefer my muted world, the auditory equivalent of
an Impressionist painting, blurred around the edges
but still the flowers and people bursting with colors all their own.
*Poem written by Jan Parlin Pacelli. Thank you for sharing!