I think it’s been well over a year. A year since I went to sleep without Max Richter, a podcast, or something playing out loud on my mobile phone. A year since I walked up to my bathroom sink and freshened up without listening to the latest NBA news on loud. A year since I took a shower without some U2 playing. A year since I managed to sit down at my desk and work in complete silence.

We’ve all heard the phrase ”Silence is Deafening,” and I finally know what that means. Silence isn’t an escape – at least not for me. I don’t long for silence. I don’t long for peace and quiet. I need chaos – of some sort – to keep myself going.

“In Silence there is eloquence. Stop weaving and see how the pattern improves.”

Rumi

I’ve been afraid of my own thoughts for a while, and I can’t put a finger on what started it. All I know is that I fell into a chasm of escapism.

At first, I searched for a trigger. If I found what it was, and addressed it, maybe I’d find a way back to my thoughts. I’m a creative at heart, and having to part with my one tool – my mind – for as long as I have, has been unbearable.

So search for the trigger I did. Maybe it happened once my father passed and I didn’t want to grieve? Nah, that couldn’t be it – I’ve made my peace with that. Perhaps it’s a general sense of change? Changing friendships. Changing relationships. Changing roles at work. That couldn’t be it either – I’ve always been one to embrace change. I welcome it, and all the new possibilities it brings with it.

I’ve always been guilty of being a serial overthinker. It’s not the finest attribute one could aspire to possess. It’s done good for me – I’ve learned to assess risk. It’s done more bad though – it hasn’t allowed me to risk enough.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed.”

Ernest Hemingway

There’s a tonne of truth to Hemingway’s words. In this case, it isn’t just bleeding – it’s finding an escape from escapism.

My pen, or keyboard, is the most lethal weapon I’ll ever wield. A weapon that I sometimes feel I’ve pointed at myself. I pour words out onto blank sheets of paper that I never knew I wanted to write – words I never wanted to see written. Words that come from my mind – but they allow me to think.

I guess it’s ironic that I found myself in a profession where I’m rewarded for presenting my thoughts on neatly crafted pieces of paper. I’m paid to think.

Maybe chaos is a propellant for my mind. Maybe white noise is all that it is. Whether good or bad, I can’t quite say – but it’s an enabler. Maybe I need distractions all around me to make me hone in on what’s most important. That’s got to be good, right?

I realize this has been a bit of a ramble – but it’s helped me come to a conclusion – so it hasn’t all been in vain. I’m at peace with where my mind’s at – and where it’s at, I don’t know. I won’t know until I have that next piece of Max Richter, or that next podcast playing. I won’t know where it’s at until I wield my pen (or keyboard).

But there’s nothing to overthink here. It’s merely a typewriter. All I do is sit at my desk and bleed.