Silence

 When I speak of silence, the first thing I ask myself is — what do I really mean by it? At first glance, it feels like a simple question. But the more I sit with it, the more layered it becomes.

Most people think of silence as the absence of sound. In conversations, it’s the absence of speech. Between two people, silence is often defined by what isn’t said. But to me, silence isn’t just about what isn’t heard — it’s also about what isn’t received, what isn’t registered. So I began to wonder — is silence just the absence of external sound, or is it something else entirely?

If I sit in a room by myself, one might say I’m surrounded by silence. But am I? The fire hums faintly in the corner. The clock ticks by steadily. A vehicle passes somewhere outside. Even in solitude, sound exists. So is it silence just because no one is speaking?

Then I thought: suppose I’m in a vacuum. There, no air means no sound can travel. It should be perfectly silent. But even in a vacuum, I would still be thinking. I would still hear my own voice inside my head. And that’s when I realised — even in absolute physical silence, the mind keeps speaking.

That voice in my head, that inner monologue — is that sound? Or is it just the memory of sound? Neuroscience tells us that when we think in words, we activate parts of the brain similar to when we speak or listen aloud — particularly Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area. These regions, involved in language production and comprehension, don’t shut down when we stop speaking. They simply quiet down a little, and begin their work internally.

So even when I’m “not talking,” part of my brain still is. This inner speech is what scientists call covert speech, and it overlaps significantly with overt, spoken language. It’s fainter, but structurally similar. In a way, my thoughts do have sound — they just don’t escape my skull.

But here’s where it gets even more interesting. Not everyone has an inner voice. There’s a condition known as anendophasia, where a person lacks internal monologue altogether. Some people also have aphantasia, which is the inability to form mental images — and many of them report having no inner voice either. On the other hand, deaf individuals often report experiencing thoughts as inner signs or tactile impressions. So inner speech isn’t universal, and it doesn’t always take the form of “sound.” It’s deeply personal, and shaped by the sensory tools we have.

I remember something from childhood. A teacher once raised her voice and said, “Class, be silent.” And I remember being oddly offended. I followed the instruction — externally. But inside, I rebelled. I spoke to myself, imagined conversations with a friend who didn’t exist, played out entire dialogues in my head. I remember wondering: Am I defying her? If I’m thinking words but no one hears them, have I broken the silence?

Even now, I’m not sure of the answer.

And then there’s another version of silence I noticed growing up — the kind that takes place amid sound. I remember sitting in class while a teacher explained something on the board, but my mind had wandered far away. I was thinking about a story I had read the night before, or wondering what I’d paint when I got home. The teacher’s voice continued, and the sounds reached my ears — but I didn’t register them. I heard them, yet I didn’t interpret them. My attention was not in the classroom, but inside my own thoughts. That too, I think, is a kind of silence — not because sound was absent, but because meaning was. The external noise was real, but I was tuned inward.

And then there's sleep. It feels like the ultimate form of silence, doesn’t it? No speaking, no conscious thought, no activity. But that isn’t quite true. Sleep is made up of different phases — REM and non-REM. During REM sleep (Rapid Eye Movement), my brain is anything but silent. This is when most vivid dreams happen. My brain waves become active, my heart beats faster, and my eyes move behind closed lids. In my dreams, I hear things — people speaking, footsteps, music. But none of these sounds come from outside. They're entirely self-generated.

In dreams, my auditory cortex — the part of the brain that processes sound — becomes active. It's the same region that helps me interpret sound in waking life. So when I hear voices in a dream, it’s not metaphor. My brain is producing that sound. In that way, silence doesn't exist in REM sleep — not really.

It’s only during deep non-REM sleep, specifically slow-wave sleep, that my brain begins to still. This is where delta waves dominate, and external stimuli are barely registered. Perhaps this is the closest I get to true silence, when both the world outside and the world inside are momentarily still.

And then, of course, there is death — which we so often describe as “eternal silence.” But I’ve come to see that phrase not as a fact, but as a guess. We call it silent because we don’t know what lies beyond. We say it is the absence of sound, the absence of thought — but in truth, we’re just naming an unknown. Perhaps it is silent. Perhaps it is not. We assume finality, because uncertainty is too difficult to hold.

So where does that leave me?

Silence, I’ve realised, is not a measurable absence. It’s not defined by the lack of noise, or even by the absence of thought. Silence is an interpretation. It’s something I assign to a moment based on what I notice — or what I fail to notice. It changes depending on how deeply I’m listening, how fully I’m present, how conscious I am of my own mind.

And maybe that’s why silence is so elusive — because it’s not really there. It’s something I can never fully grasp, only point toward. It isn’t what surrounds me.

Silence is what escapes me.