Sometimes you wonder if the world you keep building—word by word, breath by breath—is less a place than a signal. A frequency, maybe, faint and persistent, like a radio left on in an empty room. You can’t say who’s listening. You’re not even sure you are. Still, the sound comforts you. Not because it means something, but because it keeps meaning possible.
There’s a rhythm to solitude, a certain hum. It follows you through the corridors of your own thinking, where memory drifts in like static, soft and unresolved. You revisit old scenes not to make sense of them, but to remember what it felt like to be inside them—the way you used to lie in bed, eyes resting on a painting by Caspar David Friedrich on the windowsill, or watching N. through the window years ago as she left for work, disappearing into the pale morning light.
It’s not clarity you’re after. Maybe it never was. Just the echo of something honest, however faint. The quiet idea that someone, somewhere, might be tuned to the same station.
“Somewhere within silence, a frequency waits —
and we build our lives to hear it.”
I always wonder, when I hear or read about the significance of frequency, Frequency of what?
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