Silence bodes many things.
For the stressed, it can be welcome relief from a noisy, tiresome world.
For the heartbroken, it can be a constant, painful reminder of their loneliness.
For the philosopher it brings up questions if whether or not a tree makes a sound when it falls in the forest even if nobody is around to hear it.
For those who derive their energy from people, silence can be stressful.
It can mean that nothing is going on.
It can mean that something dreadful is about to happen (I’m thinking of a certain scene in The Bourne Identity just before a man crashes through a window).
It can mean that someone has nothing to say.
It can mean that someone has a lot to say, but doesn’t know where to begin, or how to phrase it, or who to say it to.
Silence can mean waiting, patiently or impatiently.
Silence can mean relaxed comfort, or icy tenseness.
Silence can be peace on earth or the moment after holocaust.

As my Greek professors always insisted: Context is king.


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