I am convinced that all the horror we see in the evening news and suffer from daily on our skin stems from a fundamental emotional tone of fear. More subtly, there is a fear that someone else can take away a part of our identity. Perhaps it’s the fear of being consumed by the waters of oblivion, the fear of disappearing, or the fear of eventually falling into nothingness.
We strive to fill this emptiness with something—anything—to avoid confronting it. We seek constant background noise—whether from the TV, the radio, or our relentless thoughts—to drown out its silence.
Deep down, we all know that if we truly question silence, we will soon discover that it screams.
As a result, we end up binging on stimuli, trivialities, and even highly informative content, accumulating vast amounts of knowledge about nothing. Yet, in the end, we find we know very little about Nothingness itself.
Lately, I’ve found myself increasingly intolerant of idle chatter—the art of talking just for the sake of talking. It frustrates me; I am beginning to genuinely dislike it. The overlapping events of two days lead to nothing but endless talk, which continues until, at last, in the solitude of sleep, both my eyes and mouth finally close.
Each day feels the same, repeating itself endlessly, with only rare moments of significant insight. But why is this the case? Is it mandated by someone? To my knowledge, not at all. This brings to mind the striking clarity of a thinker like Blaise Pascal, who observed, “All men’s unhappiness stems from not knowing how to remain silent in a room.”
I’ve come to realize that, at least for me, sitting in silence for a long time is essential before I can express anything meaningful. The more I confront the complexities of life, the more I find that silence is often the most appropriate response. Lao Tzu’s words resonate with me: “The noise of a falling tree is louder than a growing forest.”
Over time, I’ve learned that every serious question arises from silence; silence is the starting point of inquiry. To my surprise, I also discover that silence seems to be both the beginning and the end of every meaningful answer.
I am highly suspicious of those who always have a ready answer on the tip of their tongue, eager to jump in even before a question has been finished. They saturate every inch of the vast, fertile uncertainty that we fear so much.
Wittgenstein would likely agree, remarking that “in life, as in art, it is hard to say anything as effective as silence.” He would add, “whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”
Indeed, this is true. Language often seems to be used as a distraction rather than as a means to an end. It fills the spaces of the unknown, veils and diverts our attention from “dangerous” glances, masks unreachable peaks as accessible, shifts the spotlight onto more harmless subjects, and labels things in a way that leads us to believe we can neutralise what disturbs us.
And we fail to notice that it is this very practice that prevents us from truly listening, understanding, and flowing smoothly through our lives. The British psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion even remarked that “the name is an invention to make it possible to think of something and speak of it before one knows what it is.” We believe that naming or speaking of something equates to knowing it.
We feel a compulsion to name everything, to know everything, and to possess the right tools to address every minor daily or existential glitch. We aim to prevent the emptiness from overwhelming us, and always rely on that ‘safety’ net made of words to keep us from falling—and perhaps from soaring as well.
We feel a compulsion to speak.
It may be a mere nostalgia for the infinite, amniotic, oceanic yet so secure realm where everything made sense because it was nurtured by the love of others. Perhaps we are terrified by the absence of an immediate and definitive response, so we convince ourselves that, if we dig deeply enough, we might find the ultimate answer buried in death itself.
We question the reason behind such toil, such cruel irony. This endless digging and sifting leads only to more digging and sifting, resulting in a tormenting, never-ending labour devoid of purpose. In the end, what do we gain if the answer is the tragedy we already know? Chattering is killing time while we wait for time to take its toll on us.
I have noticed that many who have suffered greatly tend to speak very little. I admire them. They need not escape from Hell; they have already been there. They have no time to waste. “Light sorrows allow for speech; great pains render one mute,” said Seneca, referring to much more than this notion. Pain and silence coexist, along with wisdom as well.
Those who truly have something valuable to say often observe silence and never waste a single word. To be wise means, first and foremost, to acknowledge at least a fraction of the vast unknown that exists—infinitely larger than the little we think we know.
After all, 96 percent of the universe is composed of things about which we have no knowledge.
I get the impression that perhaps we should remain silent a little longer.
There are many other things to discuss, but…
‘Whoever has something to say, stand up and be silent.’
Ludwig Wittgenstein