Sometimes she doesn’t talk to her recorder.
Sometimes she just sits on the swing in the glasshouse and lets the silence stretch...
It’s never truly quiet, of course. Birds will never stop singing or screaming or chirping. There’s so much noise in those tiny, feathered bodies and somehow it just needs to be let out. And of course there are insects and a goat, too. Even if all of them stopped making noise for a bit, which obviously is nothing but a thought experiment, the running water would still fill the silence. Going by the definition of the word silence, this place is not it.
But the absence of words or of company is its own kind of silence.
It’s a bit lonely … but it’s mostly just peaceful.
And how could she ever be completely alone here? There’s no loneliness in the warm, orange light shining through the crystal panes. Or in the cup of coffee, the memories she holds close, the films and books and recordings.
No, she’s not really lonely. She just misses her parents, sometimes. And she isn’t happy but she has a purpose and the means to fulfil it. There’s a certain calmness to that. It feels like her life’s a drawing made from a single curved line, with a defined start and ending. Something predestined, a path she can only follow but never alter. Who knows what lays ahead? Maybe it’ll always be this. She thinks she’d be okay with that.
Or maybe something new will change everything from one moment to the next. Like an emergency signal or a mysterious fleet of battleships or a velociraptor attack...
And then she thinks about Jurassic Park until her mind calms down and she sits on the swing and thinks of nothing again.
In the glasshouse pod her thoughts are quiet and that’s what makes the silence.
She sits on the swing and watches the lights change.
It is silent and it is peaceful.