Sounds and Noises

     Words are only sounds and noises. Our mouths move in strange contortions and we breathe through them to create subtle differences in resonations. Words are only clamorous concoctions of our mouths and lungs. Yet, from them we have created everything. Words are simply sounds and noises. But then come sentences, and paragraphs, and speeches, and eventually, ideas and understanding. That’s always been the difference between hearing and listening. Understanding.

     We all have ears. We all have mouths for tasting and eyes for seeing and hands for creating. So why then are we segregated by skill. Why are only a select few able to be cooks and artists and craftsmen. Why are they alone.

     I have a number of friends. Something for which I am thankful. When I was younger, I didn’t really enjoy the comforts of friendship. I was too weird, too odd. My parents said eccentric or unique. Euphemisms.

     Everyone would laugh at the funny things I did and join me in my attempts at comedy. But afterwards my humour would only annoy. My bothersome nature became irritating, and the same people who laughed so hard as I ate the dog food we found in the corner of the floor looked away, rolled their eyes, and exasperatedly yelled, “Why are you so annoying?!” This cycle of elated joy followed by aggravated annoyance was how I spent my founding years.

     However, as one would imagine, as I entered my much larger high school, there were people for me. No matter how long I persisted, they would still laugh. Such lovely people. Such wonderful people. But lovely and wonderful do not mean impeccable.

     I have an ear. Two actually. Such nifty little things. With them, nonsensical sounds in just the right order become what mankind so prides itself on, ideas. We all carry the burden of these ideas. Ideas of invention, of philosophy, of sympathy. And yes, burden is the right word.

     Friendship is a funny transaction. It’s a deal struck between two parties, usually giving both equal satisfaction. It’s like prostitution. But money for satisfaction is far simpler. Instead, we pay in support or love or care, much rarer commodities, much harder to come by. In my case, I pay with my ear and my time. Such an odd--I’m sorry, eccentric--person like me wouldn’t be able to find friends who were stable. I probably should have expected that. I signed on the dotted line without reading the fine print.

     Every month or so, it’s another one. Who can blame them, though. Who am I to judge. Jane, she needed to talk. Now that she’s eighteen, her boyfriend is pressuring her into sex. Or Curtis, who came to my doorstep drunk. His girlfriend cheated on him and broke up with him because she “needed time to work on herself.” He vomited in my toilet before passing out in my bathroom. Or Sybil, the painter. She relieves her overbearing teenage stress by painting the clear white canvas of the toilet with such bright yellows and greens that even Jackson Pollock would be proud. Her paintbrush? The bottle of Ipecac she downs before painting.

     I’m happy to listen. I’m honour-bound to listen. They are my friends, and I care about them and their wellbeing. But even therapists get vacation hours. What of me? What of my problems? The choking anxiety I get before every test. The insomnia I’ve developed because of it.

     If I listen to everyone else, who is left to listen to me?