They love to hear the wind rustling in the treetops. They love to watch how even the deep-rooted giants slowly swing from side to side, drifting even to a certain extent. It’s almost as if someone would whisper to them that sometimes they’ll have to stand steadily, balancing life’s breezes, in order to enjoy the moment and the little liberty they might take every now and then.
He loves to hear the cat purr as it stretches out in the sun. He loves to watch how this almost majestic creature is simply lying there, spoiling itself. It’s almost as if the animal would want to show him that he should finally take some time for what is important to him again.
She loves to hear the floor creak in a way that only his footsteps make it sound. She loves to watch how at the exactly same spots, exactly the same boards make exactly the same sound as every single time when he – careful not to wake her – puts one foot in front of the other. It’s almost as if this creaking would tell her everything he’s not capable of saying.
We love to hear the cracking noise of the firewood in the chimney. We love to watch how sparks turn into flames, so destructive and yet so peaceful. It’s almost as if the heat, that warms our faces as we watch, would simply turn all the ruthless cold of the world into dust.
You love to hear the patter of the summer rain on the closed skylight. You love to watch how every single drop seems to have a destination, its very own path to follow. It’s almost as if all the sorrow, difficulty and trouble would simply roll off that window and be washed away for good.
I love to hear the scratching sound of the fountain-pen on blank paper. I love to watch how movements turn into letters, how words are formed, just like that, seemingly automatically. It’s almost as if I were just a quiet observer, watching from a distance how the page is slowly filling up, puzzled when noticing that as it happens, there is a meaning behind these lines and dots, that they – line after line – want to say something and yet don’t make a single sound except for that short scratch in this fraction of a second of their formation.