Dasha Bukovskaya

White Noise

The sound of muted laughter and glasses clinking filled up the Gatsby-style ballroom. I sipped on champagne and reflected on my childhood based on the mannerisms of the people around me. Kids run around like little drunks, seriously. I smiled to myself thinking of the wind in the trees and a dog barking to hear another answer back. Maybe a few birds chirped as they carried small twigs and strings to their nests under construction complete with imaginary caution tape. Back at home, another noise entertained my trained ears that paid attention to even the most subtle things. My TV was playing the news as the anchor discussed the weather. That reminded me of the puttering of the rain on the roof that lulls me to sleep on winter nights. Meanwhile, snow drifts down with delicacy and elegance, the quiet before the storm is noise in itself. The engine of a car. Footsteps in gravel. A telephone ringing. Music of blaring headphones. The hum of electricity in every light. The sound of the earth spinning. The sounds of cells reproducing. I could hear it all. The cacophony makes me feel so serene, the noises of babies being born contrasting with the last breath of a dying human being reminded me of the balance of life. I could never miss the sound of a shooting star that would make me think of the Little Prince on his own tiny planet with a rose. I wished every time to gift everybody with my talent, which would allow for a certain peacefulness and understanding of the things that matter most. What I don’t understand is why people only have the capacity to pay attention to what is in front of them may it be a film or another person. If they could hear the complex mechanisms that could make their computer run, for example, they would appreciate it more. The mechanisms and the factory workers slaving away to give you such a pristine product. My eyes scanned the room and the fabric of men and women’s clothing rubbed together as they danced to vibrations of guitars and vocal cords. A child would cry and worry given these talents and someone elderly would just be sick and tired of the white noise. I thought about it for a while. I took another sip. Maybe it was called white noise because, in the end, I will approach the light at the end of the tunnel where all the sounds will combine to open up the portal to paradise. I saw a handsome fellow across the room and we locked eyes. I heard his heartbeat quicken, an honest truth that he was intrigued. That emotion rubbed off on me, as my talent gave me the ability to muster my courage and make my way over to him.