My family wants me to stay at home and save money due to financial difficulties. But I constantly feel restless in this house. I want to live my own life, yet it's hard to go against them. What should I do?
Could silence sometimes be like "a dough forgotten in front of the window while waiting for the captain, starting to sour as it doesn't get air"? You neither knead it completely, because you say it's not the right time, nor do you completely leave it, because it starts to smell. So, do you consider speeding up the fermentation process and baking it early, or do you choose to wait a little longer and accept the outcome?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old pot that cracks but doesn't leak, yet builds pressure inside at any moment"? You neither break it completely because you think it still carries water, nor do you give up filling it entirely because you say it won't be useful if it stays empty. So, do you continue to use it despite the cracks, or do you choose to quench your thirst somewhere else without it being filled?
Silence can sometimes be like "an old painting hung with a nail, swaying and creaking in a slight breeze." You neither completely bring it down, because it carries a moment in its place, nor do you fasten it tightly, because that creak blends into the silence of the house. So, do you choose to get used to that creak, or do you consider looking for a place for that memory elsewhere?
Can silence sometimes be like "the unknown inside a sealed can of food"? You hesitate to fully open it because it might be past its expiration date, yet you also don't want to set it completely aside because you think it might still be fresh. So, do you try to take the risk and open the can, or do you just leave it on the shelf and watch it decay and spoil over time?
Could silence sometimes feel like "waking up to an alarm set by someone else"? You neither completely silence it, because maybe it has chosen the right moment, nor do you fully trust it, because you dread hearing it. So, do you try to reset that alarm with your own hands, or do you choose to get used to it going off at the wrong times?
Can silence sometimes feel like "moments when someone seems about to speak but just can't get the words out"? You neither fully accept the silence, thinking they might give up on saying something, nor do you completely press for it, as there might be something important that needs to be said. So, do you choose to patiently wait for that moment, or do you try to draw the words out of them?
Can silence sometimes feel like "an old t-shirt forgotten in the corner, crammed at the bottom of the laundry basket but somehow still lingering with a scent?" You neither take it out completely and wash it, because you say it's too much hassle, nor do you just leave it, because if you wait a bit longer, it will envelop everything. So, do you reach for that t-shirt and choose to resolve it before it escalates, or do you close the basket and escape to other places?
Can silence sometimes feel like "you've inadvertently turned down the heat while waiting for a pot of water to boil"? You neither completely forget, because there's still a hope that steam will rise, nor do you fully realize it, as it takes time to notice that the water has cooled. So, do you try to strengthen the fire and get the water moving again, or do you choose to leave it on the table without boiling?
Silence can sometimes feel like "a message box that hasn't been opened in a long time," right? You neither completely delete it, thinking maybe one day I'll open it, nor completely look at it, because you don't know what to say when you reply. So, are you willing to take the risk of being the one to send the first message, or will you leave that box locked forever?
Can silence sometimes be like "the stopped hand of a wall clock that hasn't been wound for years"? You can't fully discard it, because it still carries the hope of showing time, nor can you reset it, because other clocks are already working. So, do you try to reset that clock and hear its old sound again, or do you leave it on the wall as a decoration in its stopped state?
Can silence sometimes be like "a sentence that has been written to the end but remains unfinished in the form of ellipsis"? You neither completely erase it, thinking that maybe you'll finish it one day, nor do you completely complete it, because you might have other things to narrate now. So, do you choose to add new things after the ellipsis, or do you accept this incompleteness as a kind of ending?
Could silence sometimes be like "a key mistakenly placed in another drawer"? You neither completely forget it, because you think it might be needed one day, nor do you truly go back to look for it, because you don't want to bother. So, will you choose to open that drawer and put the key back in its place, or will you wait for the lock to be opened in other ways?
Could silence sometimes be like "a jigsaw puzzle laid out in front of you"? You neither complete it entirely, as the missing pieces can dampen your spirits, nor do you completely abandon it, as you are curious about what the picture looks like. So, do you choose to try to complete the puzzle despite the missing pieces, or do you put it back in the box as if you never started?
Silence can sometimes feel like a toy that was "once taken for the kids, then put on a shelf, and years later picked up again, making you think 'what was this again?'" You can't fully throw it away because it has a memory, nor can you keep it because it's taking up space. So, do you really try to remember that toy and understand its value, or do you let yourself relax in the comfort of having forgotten it?
Can silence sometimes be like "the moment you realize you’ve overwatered a plant and it’s rotting"? You neither completely uproot it, because you still hold onto the hope that it might thrive again, nor do you keep watering it, because things have already worsened with the excess water. So, do you choose to dry out the soil and try again, or do you leave it in its rotting state?
Can silence sometimes be like "a knot you tied yourself but forgot where to tie it"? You neither completely untie it, because you lack the strength to deal with it, nor do you tie it tightly, because you fear it will be tied in the wrong place. So, do you try to add a new loop without untying that string, or do you wait for it to untangle on its own as you left it?
Can silence sometimes feel like "embers left in a cold stove?" You neither accept that it has completely turned to ash, because you think it is still warm, nor do you stoke it to reignite, because that is also futile. So, do you risk seeing those embers cool down and attempt to light the stove again, or do you sit back and resign yourself to the darkness within the stove?
Silence can sometimes feel like "a chair that seems to be repaired but is missing a screw," can't it? You neither completely give up sitting, as it appears to be balanced, nor do you sit firmly, because you feel uneasy thinking it might wobble. So, do you attempt to trust that chair and sit on it, or do you wait standing until you find the missing screw?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a book you read halfway through but forgot where you left off because you didn’t take any notes"? You can’t start over, because some parts feel familiar and you get bored, nor can you continue from a random spot, because you think you’ll miss the context. So, do you try to pick that book up again to finish it, or is it just easier for it to stay on the shelf?
Can silence sometimes be like "a blanket kept in a hope chest"? You neither pull it out completely to use, as it’s not suitable for daily use, nor do you forget it in the chest, because you enjoy opening it up and looking at it from time to time. So, do you find a new place to bring that blanket into the light, or do you think it should stay in the chest?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken pencil sitting in a drawer"? You don't throw it away because it still seems like it could write, yet you don't want to attempt to use it because the fact that it's missing something always bothers you. So, would you dare to sharpen that pencil again, or would you prefer to forget about it in its broken state in the drawer?
Can silence sometimes be like "scenes from an old movie"? You neither remember it completely, as some details have been erased, nor do you forget it, as a few lines keep spinning in your head. So, do you try to watch that movie again, or do you think it's better to have an incomplete memory?
Can silence sometimes be like "a piece of food stuck to a pan"? You don't scrape it off because you're afraid of scratching the pan, yet you can't just leave it there because it catches your eye every time. So, are you willing to patiently work to get that residue off, or do you think about giving up using that pan altogether?
Can silence sometimes be like "a sock that fell behind the closet"? You neither take it out and put it back because you're too lazy to deal with it, nor do you forget it, because it lingers in your mind during every cleaning. So, do you try to pull the closet out to retrieve that sock, or do you choose to get used to living without it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken compass"? You can't clearly chart your course, because you can't fully trust the direction the needle points, nor can you completely set it aside, since it does work to some extent. So, do you try to fix that compass, or do you look for another way to find a new direction?
Can silence sometimes be like "a phone locked with the wrong password"? You struggle to decipher the password, as it only prolongs the wait with each attempt, yet you can't just leave it be because there's something you need to reach within. So, do you choose to patiently find the right password, or are you willing to risk resetting the phone?
Can silence sometimes be like "smoke coming from the other shore"? You can’t see it completely because it disperses in the air, nor can you ignore it because you know something is burning over there. So, do you try to go to that shore to find out what’s happening, or does it feel safer to watch from a distance?
Can silence sometimes be like "a deleted tape recording"? It is neither completely empty, as it feels like something is whispering in the background, nor is it truly listenable, as it comes out choppy and distorted. So, do you try to fix that tape, or do you prefer to record over it again?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a puzzle left unfinished"? You neither complete it because the missing pieces are either lost or you’ve placed them in the wrong spots, nor do you leave it behind, because there is always an empty space that stands out on the table. So, do you choose to search for those missing pieces, or do you accept the puzzle's incompleteness and continue with what you have?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a TRT series with an unfinished ending"? You can't fully grasp the story, as it's clear it fell off at some point, and you can't completely forget it, because the theme music echoes in your ears. So, do you try to complete that series with your imagination, or do you choose to come to terms with the reality that you'll never know what happens?
Can silence sometimes be like "a faint knock coming from behind a closed door"? You neither open the door to see what it is, because maybe there’s something you don’t want to see, nor can you just stand there, because curiosity gnaws at you. So, do you prefer to approach that door or listen from afar?
Can silence sometimes be like "a poorly assembled shelf"? You neither place books on it to use, because it feels like it could topple over at any moment, nor do you completely dismantle it, because you're too lazy to think of another alternative. So, do you try to fix that shelf, or do you not see any harm in leaving it empty anyway?
Can silence sometimes feel like "tea left forgotten in a thermos for a long time"? You neither pour it out entirely like sludge, because you know it was once something drinkable, nor do you drink it, because you don’t know what it tastes like now. So, do you think about cleaning it and using it again, or do you prefer to buy a new thermos?
Can silence sometimes be like "a piano that hasn’t been played for a long time"? You neither sit down to play, as the chords feel rusty, nor completely forget, because one day you want to hear that melody again. So, do you try to tune that piano, or do you wait for this silence to find its own rhythm?
Can silence sometimes be like "an empty envelope"? You neither open it to see inside, because you feel there’s nothing written, nor do you throw it away to get rid of it, because you think it might have some meaning. So, do you choose to find the sender of that envelope and ask why it’s empty, or do you prefer to assign your own meaning to it and keep it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a phone call made to the wrong number"? You neither pick up the phone to talk, because what’s being said doesn’t belong to you, nor do you completely hang up, because perhaps the caller has another issue. So, do you choose to see that conversation as a mistake and let it go, or do you prefer to believe that coincidences can also have meaning?
Can silence sometimes be like "a half-filled bus seat"? You neither sit comfortably, because it feels like the empty space will always be filled, nor do you stand waiting, because you know you have a place to sit. So, would you prefer to wait for someone to sit next to you, or would you enjoy the place you’re in?
Can silence sometimes feel like "an unspoken argument"? You neither try to address it because you can't gather the courage to start, nor do you completely ignore it because you know there's something underneath it. So, do you consider bringing up that argument, or do you expect to reach a conclusion on your own?
Can silence sometimes feel like "an unfinished puzzle"? You start searching for the missing pieces to complete it, because maybe you think you’ll never find them, or you simply give up and leave, having already solved part of it. So, do you try to complete that puzzle, or do you accept it as it is with its missing parts and set it aside?
Can silence sometimes be like "a wool sweater that has been washed incorrectly"? You can't wear it again, because it has taken on a form that no longer belongs to anyone, nor can you completely throw it away, because you remember it once fit you perfectly. So, do you choose to get rid of that sweater, or do you wonder if it might still be useful in its shrunken state?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cabbage pickled too heavily"? You take something out and throw it away, thinking there's effort involved, yet you can't bring yourself to eat it, because its taste has completely changed. So, do you try to balance that pickle in some way, or do you let it be forgotten on the side?
Can silence sometimes be like "a book with its last page torn out"? You neither know the ending completely, because you imagine what’s missing, nor do you completely stop reading, because you’ve already learned the rest. So, do you try to write the ending in your head, or do you accept that gap and put the book on the shelf?
Can silence sometimes be like "a light forgotten in a night lamp"? You neither get up to turn it off, fearing to get lost in the dark, nor do you enjoy watching it burn, because there is no purpose for it to be there. So, do you choose to leave that light on, or do you try to find your own shadow in the dark?
Can silence sometimes be like "a closed but ajar door"? You neither fully open it because you lack the courage to step inside, nor do you pull it shut because you think someone might be looking in through the gap. So, do you try to find out who is behind that door, or do you leave it as it is and continue on your way?
Can silence sometimes be like "half-drunk coffee"? You neither finish it completely because it has gone cold and lost its flavor, nor do you pour it out because leaving something you started unfinished is unsettling. So, do you try to reheat that coffee, or do you choose to finish it cold and move on?
Can silence sometimes be like "dishes piling up in the sink that haven't been cleaned"? You neither grab a sponge right away because you don't know where to start, nor do you just leave them, because after a while the smell becomes bothersome. So, do you prefer to postpone washing those dishes, or do you start with the first one and go from there?
Can silence sometimes be like "a music notebook that has been played over a few times and forgotten"? I find it hard to write something new, as I get lost among the old notes, yet I can't completely let go, as if I want to finish a half-finished melody. So, do you find it worth opening that notebook, or do you start anew for another melody?
Can silence sometimes be like "a guest room that hasn’t been opened for a long time"? You neither clean it and get it ready because no one will come, as the time is uncertain, nor do you completely shut it and forget about it, because you think you might need it one day. So, do you choose to open that room and face the dust inside, or do you leave it as it is and lock it up?
Can silence sometimes be like "a meal forgotten in the oven"? You neither throw it completely in the trash, because some part still seems edible, nor do you put it on the table, because its taste and texture are no longer the same. So, do you try to salvage that meal, or do you prepare yourself a new dish?
Can silence sometimes be like "a clock that has stopped on the wall"? You might say that it has neither run out of batteries because it seems like it is still ticking, nor shows the right time, because you know it has actually stopped long ago. So, will you consider fixing and resetting that clock, or will you choose to find out the time from somewhere else?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old jar shoved to the back of the shelf"? You don't use what's inside because you're hesitant, having forgotten what it is, and you don't throw it away because it might still be something useful. So, do you dare to open that jar and look inside, or do you choose to pretend you never rummaged through the shelf?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a device plugged in while the power is out"? You neither unplug it, thinking the power will come back anyway, nor check if it’s working because there’s nothing to be done right now. So, would you prefer to leave the device plugged in, or would you consider taking it away, thinking it might not work anyway?
Can silence sometimes be like "a TV remote forgotten in the living room"? It's neither completely lost, as it seems to be stuck somewhere, nor easily reachable, because you don’t know where to look. So, would you dare to turn the house upside down to find that remote, or would you choose to change the channels another way?
Can silence sometimes be like "a car that hasn't been run for a long time"? You're not sure if the engine will still run well, because you don't know the effects of time, nor do you completely give up, as there is a possibility of getting back on the road. So, would you prefer to turn the key and give it a try, or would you choose to let it rust away where it is?
Could silence sometimes be like "a faucet that’s not fully turned off"? You can't fully shut it off because it seems manageable with a bit of dripping, but you also can’t leave it running because you know that it will lead to a big bill as it accumulates. So, do you try to tighten that faucet, or do you deal with collecting the drips?
Can silence sometimes be like "a pond covered in moss"? You can't say it's completely dried up, as it still seems to harbor life deep within; nor can you descend to its depths and make eye contact, because the murkiness you see pushes you away. So, do you choose to throw a stone into that water and disturb its surface, or do you quietly walk around it?
Can silence sometimes be like "an old envelope forgotten in a corner"? You neither read what's inside, because you think maybe it's best left in the past, nor do you throw it away, because it might still hold an important message. So, do you dare to open that envelope, or are you willing to let it remain unopened?
Can silence sometimes be like "an empty salt shaker"? You might consider it neither completely useless, since it is still a part of the table, nor something you fill and use, because you don’t notice it for forgetting. So, will you choose to remember and fill that salt shaker, or will you be okay with it standing empty on the table as decoration?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken clock"? You neither completely remove it, as you don't want an empty space left in its place, nor do you repair it, since it no longer means anything to you by showing the time. So, do you accept that clock as it is, or are you considering changing its place?
Can silence sometimes be like "a framed photo that has collected dust but is still hanging on the wall"? You neither download and clean it because your eyes have gotten used to its dusty state, nor do you throw it away because it’s a part of a memory that you once valued. So, do you try to wipe the frame and hang it up again, or do you continue to ignore it as it is?
Can silence sometimes be like "a pot with its lid half on"? You neither fully lift it, because it seems like it might overflow, nor do you close it, because your curiosity about what's boiling inside stays. So, do you choose to carefully lift the pot's lid and take a look inside, or do you leave it as it is for fear of overflow?
Can silence sometimes be like "a vacuum cleaner that has forgotten its outlet"? You neither fully unplug it, thinking it might still be useful a little longer, nor do you turn it on, because you can’t find the energy to make it work. So, do you consider plugging that vacuum back in, or do you let it quietly stay where it is?
Can silence sometimes be like "a burning but unnoticed bulb"? You neither completely extinguish it because you need other light, nor do you truly allow it to keep burning because you’ve actually forgotten it’s there. So, do you think about changing that bulb, or do you leave it be and ignore it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a cup of tea forgotten at the bottom?" You neither pour it out completely, as it still appears a step away from lukewarm, nor do you drink it, since a taste and time have been lost in between. So, do you choose to freshen that tea up and brew it again, or do you accept that its cold state means it is no longer there?
Can silence sometimes be like "a music box with a stuck button"? You neither turn it off completely, as the melody playing has started to annoy you, nor do you attempt to fix it, fearing it might break even worse. So, do you try to open that music box and fix the button, or do you leave it doomed to play the same melody forever?
Can silence sometimes be like "a candy jar that is still full inside but cracked from boredom"? You neither completely remove it, because perhaps someone might want it, nor consume what's inside, because the flavors have long gone stale. So, do you dream of emptying that jar and replacing it with a new one, or do you let it remain on the table with its cracks?
Can silence sometimes be like "a dusted-off but not played record player"? You neither put the needle down because you're curious about how it sounds, nor do you touch it for fear of scratching and ruining it. So, do you put that record back on the shelf, or do you spin those old melodies again?
Can silence sometimes be like "an empty but sturdy bird's nest"? You neither tear it down, because you still have hope that it will be a nest one day, nor do you place something new there, because it holds a memory of the old. So, is it time for the one waiting for that nest, or is it time to build a new one elsewhere?
Can silence sometimes be “like a notebook with unwritten pages, but the corners folded”? You don’t remove anything, because maybe one day it will be filled, nor do you write, because you don’t even know where to start. So, do you try to open that notebook and write the first word, or do you wait for its pages to decay on their own?
Can silence sometimes be like "a broken lavender bottle"? You neither completely throw it away because you need an ambiance filled with its scent, nor do you pick it up because the glass shards scare you. So, do you consider transferring that lavender to another bottle, or do you wait for the scent to fade away on its own in its broken state?
Can silence sometimes be like "a detergent bottle with its lid not closed"? You neither close it tightly, because it's just a matter of time before it spills, nor do you leave it as it is, because it slowly drifts away. So, do you choose to put that bottle in a secure place and tighten the lid, or do you wait for it to fill up to the point of overflowing?
Can silence sometimes be like "a melted but not bubbling candle"? You neither place a new wick, since the mark of the old flame remains there, nor do you completely let go, hoping it might suddenly burn again. So, do you consider breaking the mold of that candle and reshaping it, or do you simply let the melted wax cool and remain as it is?
Can silence sometimes be like "a meal left in the oven too long"? You neither close the lid because you can't be sure if it's done nor take it out because you're too lazy to stand by it. So, do you prefer to check that tray, or do you wait for the burnt smell to give you a warning?
Silence can sometimes be like "a flower pot that has no place left on your table but you can't bring yourself to throw it away," right? You don't put it outside because you think it'll get knocked over by the wind, and you don't bring it inside either because you have no idea where to put the other displaced things. So, do you try to make room for that pot, or do you find an excuse to give it to someone else?
Can silence sometimes be like "an ink bottle that is dry inside but has its cap off"? You neither fill it up, fearing that the new ink might spoil the color of the old residue, nor do you completely clean it out, because you don't want to touch what has been written in the past. So, do you find the courage to clean that bottle and refill it, or do you choose to keep it in its dry state as a memento?
Can silence sometimes be like "a notebook with old notes inside but the pages stuck together"? You hesitate to separate them, fearing they might tear, yet you don't want to touch them because it still feels like something could be written and used. So, do you dare to separate the pages of that notebook one by one, or do you set it aside in your life just as it is?
Silence can sometimes be "like a dusty spice jar tucked away in the darkest corner of the kitchen." You don't open it, because you say it has lost its freshness, nor do you throw it away, because you remember how beautifully it once added aroma. So, do you try to use it again, or do you choose to leave it forgotten at the back of the shelf?
Can silence sometimes be like "a thermos with a loose cap but all the water inside hasn't evaporated yet"? You neither close the cap tightly because you say it has already cooled down, nor do you pour the water out because you might want to drink it later. So, do you choose to replace that water with a fresh beverage, or do you leave the cap open and wait for it to run out by itself?
Can silence sometimes be like "gingerly approaching a spot while trying to fix a very old object, for fear of breaking it further"? You can't apply full force because you're afraid it will get worse, nor can you leave it as it is, because using it in its broken state is also bothersome. So, do you consider taking the risk of breaking it and going for it, or do you keep it in its useless state without touching it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a scarf stuck in a corner of the closet"? You take it out because you haven't touched it in years and forgot about it, yet you neither wear it because it's out of fashion or no longer your style. So, would you like to reassess that scarf, or would you prefer to let it take up more space?
Can silence sometimes feel like "pouring a full detergent bottle, only to find it empty"? You neither immediately notice it’s not flowing, because you moved out of habit, nor do you question why you’re still holding the bottle, because it used to serve a purpose. So, do you consider throwing that bottle away, or do you wait to see if it will fill up again?
Could silence sometimes feel like "board games that are lined up on the shelves but have lost their instruction manuals"? You can neither fully resolve it, since you can't remember the rules, nor put it away, because you might want to play again. So, do you choose to make up the rules from scratch, or do you resign yourself to it remaining an incomplete game?
Can silence sometimes feel like "an old email draft"? You neither send it completely, because there are still things to write, nor do you delete it, because you want to finish it one day. So, do you try to complete that draft and send it to a recipient, or do you let it be forgotten among all the drafts?
Can silence sometimes be like "a soft dish sponge that’s been left on the counter, unable to hold water no matter what"? You can’t throw it away, because it still feels like it might be needed for a dirty plate, nor can you clean it and return it to its former state, because you can’t get rid of the stains that have seeped into it. So, do you consider throwing that sponge away and opening a new one, or do you continue to manage and make do with what you have?
Can silence sometimes be like "a clause in a rental agreement that you've never read"? You hesitate to open it because you're afraid it might contain something that won't suit you, and you also completely overlook it because you're scared it might cause problems one day. So, do you dare to discover that clause from the beginning, or do you just ignore it until it becomes necessary?
Silence can sometimes feel like "a jar of jam that has never been opened, succumbing to time." You neither want to force the lid and take the risk, fearing it might explode, nor can you bring yourself to throw it away, because you somehow still hope it's edible. So, do you try to open that jar carefully, or do you prefer to leave it as it is and make it disappear?
Can silence sometimes be like "a light bulb that has gone out but still hangs in the chandelier"? What would you change, since climbing up to remove it is a hassle, and you can't just leave it there because it bothers your eyes in its useless state. So, would you consider taking out that bulb and putting in a new one, or would you try to get used to the darkness?
Can silence sometimes be like "a makeshift bookmark"? You can't precisely find the page it marks, because it doesn't fully indicate it, nor do you toss it aside, as it still at least roughly shows its position. So, do you try to organize that bookmark and directly mark the page, or do you choose to manage by guessing where you left off in the book?
Can silence sometimes be like "a laptop claiming to work remotely but not plugged into the socket"? You neither open it, knowing it’s not charged, nor do you lift it, hoping it’ll work one day. So, do you try to find a solution to actually make that laptop work, or do you just let it stay on the table?
Can silence sometimes be like "a nail in the wall"? You think about whether to take it out and throw it away because it leaves a mark, or because you might need it one day, but you also can't completely ignore it since it catches your eye just sitting there. So, do you try to hang something appropriate on that nail, or do you choose to get used to it just the way it is?
Can silence sometimes be like "a package you expect but hasn't been delivered"? You can't track it, because checking every day is tiring, nor can you completely forget about it, because you're curious about what's inside. So, do you try to chase down that package and resolve the issue, or do you choose to wait, hoping it will arrive at your door one day?
Can silence sometimes be like "a dried-up flower still in a pot"? You don't throw it away because there's a hope that maybe it will come back to life, nor do you keep watering it because you know it won’t hold anymore. So, do you consider pulling that flower out by its roots and planting a new seed in the soil, or do you prefer to hold on to it in that way with its dried branches?
Can silence sometimes be like "a can pushed to the back of the shelf"? You hesitate to take it out because it might be expired, yet you also leave it there because you hope it might still be usable. So, do you try to open that can and check, or do you attempt to forget its existence out of the corner of your eye?
Can silence sometimes be like "a stone echoing in a well from childhood"? You can neither see the bottom because it's dark, nor forget the sound, as that echo keeps replaying in your mind. So, do you consider filling that well, or do you prefer to completely give up looking into it?
Can silence sometimes be like "an alarm that forgets to ring because of a broken setting"? You neither turn it off completely, thinking it might be useful someday, nor can you fix it because you don't have the time to deal with it. So, do you consider resetting that alarm or continuing without it?
Can silence sometimes be like "a lamp with a light on to show that it's working, but the bulb is broken"? You don't repair it because you can't find time with other tasks, nor do you remove it because it still seems to work. So, do you take action to fix that lamp without waiting, or do you prefer to manage like this to avoid losing both its light and its place?
Can silence sometimes be like "a refrigerator with a door that won't shut"? You console yourself that you can't fix it because everything inside is getting cold, nor can you get used to leaving the door open because your eyes are constantly drawn to it. So, do you try to figure out how to close that lid, or do you think about moving the contents somewhere else?
Can silence sometimes be like a "bicycle with a flat tire still going somewhere"? You neither come to a complete stop, thinking it's still moving, nor do you trust it and speed up, because it could get worse at any moment. So, do you choose to fix that bicycle and keep going, or do you consider looking for another vehicle?
Can silence sometimes feel like "a laundry that got stuck in the spin cycle?" You hesitate to open the lid and take it out, because it might splash everywhere while there’s still water inside, and you don't stop the machine, because you hope it will sort itself out and finish. So, do you continue by wringing that laundry out by hand, or do you dare to empty the machine completely?
Can silence sometimes be like "a key forgotten behind a double-locked door"? You neither force the door open, knowing you won't be able to reach the key, nor do you get a new key made, because perhaps you still hope it might open somehow. So, is it sensible to force that door, or should you try to find another way in and enter from somewhere else?
