I was going through my old rusty ring-bound notebook and came across a passage I wrote while sitting on the school ledge on a windy day. That passage gave birth to a short story I then named Quietus. Defined by my handy-dandy Bookman Dictionary, Quietus is 1. the removal from activity 2. death or 3. something that quiets. And that passage I shall share with you here, because I love it, like a mother who gives birth to a child. Because I hope you would love it as well.

It was so peaceful. So full of silent satisfaction that the noise is blocked out by those who do not speak. And they, they who use no words, understand each other, through conversations held by the eyes. There are peaks and crevices, unseen but felt through the motions of their breathing. It was to an extent that you could swear that you can see the pounding of the heart of the person before you, beside you, as they let the atmosphere seep into them. And later, it's as if the whole world exhales.

It never became too quiet. Well, that's for someone who knows the spirited freedom of just remaining. To know the value of a calm, concentrated wait... a straight and steady gaze despite a verging disturbance. It is to know the pure joy or your true soul. And noise does not distract. It may, but lasts for only a moment. A learned moment, it becomes. Then it becomes quiet again. And you begin to appreciate yourself... again.

It was so easy that you can feel the coolness of the waving breeze lace through your fingers. So serene that you can see the wind. It was so still that you'd actually see the blades of grass ripple when you made the slightest move. And when you look up, you'd mistake the sky for the sea.