There's a strange thing about silence. A variation and meaning of its own.
For a mountaineer, silence is the pacific warmth of conquering frosted crests. In a house with kiddiewinks, silence is the surmise for the gales to howl. For an artist, silence is filling hues to imagination. For a writer, silence is a secluded room to communicate with the void. Silence is discipline for students in school. In the silver screen, silence defines the goosebumps of panic. For a girl in the dark, silence is the echo of her palpitating heart. For a lone man, silence is the incessant knock to fill spaces. Silence, in a connubial life, with a smile is a sweet gesture of admiration. Or an aloof silence, can be the trembling edge of a contradictory relationship.
Silence can be a smiling summer; or a call for the tempest. It can also be the reminisce of autumn; or the sparkling white bed of snow.
For me, silence is a stroll through the green in the countryside, humming frivolous tunes with classical guitar playing in mind; silence is swaying with the breeze and frills levitating, feeling paused between time and space. It is the beauty of expanded horizon, colourful springs peeping across the curls. Silence to me, is the shade of willows that bends majestically to greet. Silence is tracking the shadow of clouds floating in spreaded turquoise. It is, witnessing the setting yolk finally changing the colour of the veil. It is an escape to the fields of less populace, away from the abiding cacophony.