What makes a space still?
Perhaps the color—a glassy white sweeping across every wall, so someone standing in the center sees everything and nothing all at once. It is that which would make it still: the silence that comes with knowing that you are seeing the bounds of the world while being bound yourself. The confines of a quiet room permitting you to see the universe—that would be stillness.
Perhaps the sound—a buzzing drone might waver from side to side, filling your ears with a gentle, whispering scream. The scream would soak into the mind, enveloping the head with a cruel kindness. In the sound, you would know the room is empty, for loneliness grants the privilege of hearing everything. In the whine, the room would liven to a loud silence: stillness, again.
Perhaps in emptiness, no one and nothing would surround you; there would be only a floor and a ceiling and walls, and you wouldn’t know which is which. In a moment, it would feel like a fingertip could shift the rules of gravity, that the room could tilt. Every jump would be surreal against the mirrored, milky surface. In the nothingness, you’d see everything, and all would be still.
Stillness is simply nothing, yet everything.
Then, what makes a space busy?
Perhaps, a rambunctious room would be brimming with neon signs and plush bears, collected road signs and vintage poetry, and old cars too broken to be used. It would welcome everyone with crooked-hinged doors and the smell of rust and electricity. The busyness would stretch and slip from every crevice like an oil spill, colorful and tainting. It would feel like seeing everything.
Perhaps, a constant clamor would surround every turn. A single step could trigger a cascading pummel of metal and wood. An old collected clock might chime every 58 minutes, plagued by the damage of age and improper upkeep. Birds, let in by a hole in the roof, would twitter and chirp. A humming of decades-old rock music would vibrate through the walls. It would feel like hearing everything.
Perhaps, a room filled with uncountable company. A family would be packed into the tiniest of spaces, laughing and oblivious to the compact nature of their meeting. A solid chuckle from the corner of the room would sound from a young girl’s grandfather; a dog would bark and wrestle with the newest toddler on the floor. Everything would be cramped, and no one would ever be alone.
Busyness is simply unyielding, almost overwhelming.
For that reason, I prefer the quiet room.
