Staying at home is difficult, but I can't say no to family

Can silence sometimes be like "a plug stuck in the wrong socket"? It neither creates a proper connection, because it can't allow the flow of energy, nor does it sit completely idle, because it looks like it’s in place. But ask: is it easier to just leave that plug there, or to move it to find the right socket?

Can silence sometimes be like "a speaker with a broken volume knob"? You can neither turn the sound up, as the control is not in your hands, nor can you completely turn it off, because something still resonates inside. But ask: Is there another way to hear that speaker's sound, or should you be sure that it’s not in the place you are looking for the sound?

Can silence sometimes be like "a closed-mouth can?" Neither do you open it to see what's inside, because you fear the smell, nor do you completely throw it away, because you think you might need it one day. But ask yourself: Should you really keep that can, or is it time to take that expired burden off the shelf?

Silence can sometimes be like "a battery removed from a wall clock." It neither shows the time, because it no longer works, nor does it completely disappear, because for a moment it stops and is still there. But ask: Do you intend to put a battery back in that clock, or will you continue to pretend to forget the time?

Can silence sometimes be like "a sieve with holes"? It can't filter everything completely, because it seeps through the holes, nor can you say it’s useless, because it seems to do the job. But ask: What passes through that sieve, and whose glass is left with the residue that isn't filtered out?

Can silence sometimes be like a "broken glass"? You decide what to throw away, because it still holds water, but you can't use it safely, as it poses a risk of cutting you. But ask: Is it the value of the water inside that makes you hold onto that glass, or is it the inability to find the energy to get a new one?

Can silence sometimes be like "a closet you're afraid to open"? You neither organize what’s inside, because it feels impossible to add anything more, nor do you completely empty it, because gathering the scattered things seems like a bigger job. But ask yourself: Is the clutter in that closet really yours?

Can silence sometimes be like "a clock that doesn't ring"? It neither alerts you when the time comes, because it never works, nor can you completely ignore it, as it still sits on your bedside. But ask: Did you forget to set that alarm, or are you moving the hands because you actually don't want it to ring?

Can silence sometimes be like "an energy source cut off because the electricity bill wasn’t paid"? You can neither turn on the light because the connection is lost, nor can you fully accept the darkness because there used to be light. But ask: Is that bill really your debt, or are you paying for the consumption of others?

Can silence sometimes be like "a locked notebook"? You start to write, because you don't have the key in your hand, yet you don't completely give up, because you can feel the texture of the paper. But ask: Does the emptiness inside that notebook truly belong to you, or are you forcing yourself to write someone else's story?

Can silence sometimes be like "a child whose kite hasn't taken off in the wind"? Neither do you let go of the string, because there's still hope of rising, nor do you hold on to it, because it no longer excites you. But ask: Are you waiting for that kite in the wrong wind, or are you really not untying the string because you don't want it to fly?

Can silence sometimes be like a "blunt pair of scissors"? You can neither cut the paper neatly, because it won’t open, nor do you throw it away completely, because you still hold onto the hope that it might be useful. But ask yourself: Are you too preoccupied to know that scissors, or do you keep it in the drawer because it occupies you with its dullness?

Can silence sometimes be like "a labyrinth with no exit"? You neither find the right way, as every turn brings you back to the same place, nor do you completely give up, as you cannot accept being lost. But ask: who built that labyrinth, and are you really sure there is no exit?

Can silence sometimes be like "a motor that hasn't been started"? You neither set off because it doesn't move, nor do you completely let go, as you wait in hope for it to get going from where it has stopped. But ask: Is the fuel of that engine finished, or is it rusting away because the ignition hasn't been turned on?

Could silence sometimes be like "an unfinished kitchen cabinet"? You can neither push the door because the stacked items inside will fall, nor can you completely empty it, as organizing it takes time. But ask yourself: do you really need that cabinet, or are you just keeping it in case you might need it 'one day'?

Can silence sometimes be like "a deleted message"? You neither rewrite it, because the words are gone forever, nor do you completely forget it, because you still remember its content. But ask: Did that message really need to be delivered, or was deleting it a solution?

Can silence sometimes be like "a gift that has not been fully unwrapped"? You neither continue to unwrap it because you're afraid of the surprise inside, nor do you leave it there, because your curiosity gnaws at you. But ask: Was it your choice to receive that gift, or is it a burden chosen by someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "an unpaid bill"? You neither pay it because it strains your budget nor completely ignore it because interest accrues. But ask yourself: Is that debt really yours, or is it a burden mistakenly charged to you by someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "a tea that has gone cold"? You don't drink it because it has lost its taste, nor do you pour it out because it still reminds you of a warm beginning. But ask: Can't you reheat that tea, or is chasing after something that has already lost its flavor just a waste of time?

Can silence sometimes be like "a door hinge that's come loose"? You can't fully shut it because one side swings in the void, nor can you completely take it off because the door feels like it needs to be there. But ask: Is it harder to change that hinge, or to admit that the door no longer shuts?

Can silence sometimes be "like a dried sponge"? It cleans nothing, because it no longer absorbs water, nor do you throw it away, because it was useful at one time. But ask: Is the reason for still keeping that sponge a habit, or is it just laziness to look for a new one?

Can silence sometimes be like "a stopped clock"? You neither repair it, because it reminds you that you’re missing time, nor do you remove it, because it feels like there would be a void on the wall. But ask: Are you keeping that clock in its stopped place as decoration, or are you waiting for someone to make it start ticking again?

Can silence sometimes be like "a jar lid that won’t budge"? You exert all your strength to open it, because you really don’t know if you'll reach what's inside, nor do you completely give up, because it feels like someone could help. But ask: Is what’s inside the jar still fresh, or is trying to open it a futile effort?

Can silence sometimes be like "the creaking of a worn-out chair"? You neither give up sitting because it still holds you up, nor do you fix it because you’ve gotten used to its sound. But ask: Is that creak your discomfort, or is it covering someone else's silence?

Can silence sometimes be like "a tangled ball of yarn"? You can neither untangle it, as there are knots upon knots, nor can you completely discard it, because you think there’s still a piece you can use at one end. But ask: Does unraveling those knots test your patience, or is there something else that binds you to that chaos?

Can silence sometimes be like "a stain that won't come out"? You can't completely clean it, because it leaves a mark, and you can't cover it up, because it's still there. But ask yourself: does living with that stain bother you, or are you trying to erase it because someone might notice?

Can silence sometimes be like a "lighter that won't light"? You neither throw it away, because you hope it might work again one day, nor do you get it repaired, because you've gotten used to managing until it’s actually needed. But ask yourself: is your reason for holding onto that lighter really that you need it, or is it the fear of having no excuse to buy a new one?

Could silence sometimes be like "a silent phone"? You neither completely turn it off, because one day you expect someone to call, nor do you keep it constantly on, because when it doesn't ring, you hear even more silence. But ask yourself: When that phone rings, do you really want to pick it up, or is just knowing it rang enough?

Can silence sometimes be like "a water-filled balloon"? You neither want to burst it, because you know the chaos it will unleash, nor do you want to hold onto it, because it could explode with the slightest pressure. But ask: when that balloon bursts, who will be in control, you or the whims of chance?

Can silence sometimes feel like "a book with a missing last page"? You neither completely abandon reading, because you've come this far, nor do you continue, because the inability to learn the ending disturbs you. But ask: Did you rip out and throw away the missing page, or did it never exist?

Can silence sometimes be like a "dead end sign"? You can't go back, because you've already passed that sign, nor can you stay there, because it feels like there might be another way ahead. But ask yourself: Is that sign stopping you, or has the road really already ended?

Can silence sometimes be like "the curtains of the neighbor across the hall"? You neither fully open them because you don’t want to show the inside, nor completely close them because you need to see outside. But ask yourself: Did you choose the curtains, or were they chosen for you?

Can silence sometimes be like "a jar lid that hasn't been tightly closed"? You neither tighten it fully, because you don't want to spoil what’s inside, nor do you leave it open, because it could spill at any moment. But ask yourself: Is your failure to close that lid tightly out of laziness, or do you truly know that you don't need what's inside the jar?

Can silence sometimes be like "a ball lost among the bushes"? Do you keep picking it up to play because the thorns of the bush prick your hands, or do you leave it there because the ball is still yours? But ask: Do you really want to play, or are you searching for it because you can't accept that you've lost the ball?

Could silence sometimes be like "an unfinished message"? You neither write it out completely, because you can't find the courage to get a response, nor do you completely erase it, because what you wanted to say still resonates somewhere within you. But ask: Is your purpose in writing that message to receive a reply, or just to hear your own voice?

Can silence sometimes be like a "broken clock"? You neither repair it, because you don’t want time to flow, nor throw it away, because you believe it shows the right time every once in a while. But ask: Is that clock broken because it has stopped, or has it ceased to work because you stopped looking at it?

Can silence sometimes be like "an inverted hourglass"? You can’t turn it back, because you can’t predict what the flowing sand will bring, nor can you just leave it, because the stasis of time unsettles you. But ask: has the sand really run out, or are you wrestling with your fears about the direction of the flow?

Can silence sometimes be like "a tray of pastries forgotten in the oven"? What do you check, because if it's burned, it becomes a waste of time; yet you don't completely abandon it, because maybe it has cooked to perfection. But ask: Were you the one who set the oven to that degree from the beginning, or was it a heat left over from someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "a record trying to be played without being scratched"? What do you leave behind, because your patience to listen to the music is inexhaustible, nor do you push it, because as the scratches increase, it becomes impossible to play at all. But ask: why are you still keeping that record, is it the music it would play that binds you, or the scratches?

Can silence sometimes be like "a suitcase forgotten on a journey"? You neither return to get it because you don’t want to interrupt the flow of your journey, nor completely forget it as you leave, because there might still be something you need inside. But ask: Were you the one who packed that suitcase, or were you carrying someone else's burden?

Can silence sometimes feel like "a hole you didn’t realize was there"? You search for something to fill the hole because accepting its existence is hard, yet you can’t completely ignore it, as it makes you feel the water leaking in. But ask yourself: Did you create that hole, or has it always been there and you’re just now noticing it?

Can silence sometimes feel like "an empty draft"? You fill it with something to create because you don't know where to start, nor do you completely erase it because you carry the weight of a potential idea. But ask: is that draft really your idea, or is it a starting point left behind by someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "an unopened gift box"? You hesitate to open it because you’re unsure of what will come out, yet you can’t leave it closed because curiosity burns inside you. But ask: Was that gift really meant for you, or was it forgotten, meant for someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "a wrongly rung bell"? You neither go to the bell, as there’s no chance for it to open anymore, nor do you completely ignore it, as you might still be waiting for something. But ask: Did the bell really ring, or did it just seem that way because you wanted to hear it?

Can silence sometimes be like "an old inn door"? You don't oil the hinges because you're afraid of what you'll face when you open it, nor do you wrench the door off its hinges, because the story of where it locked is heavy. But ask: Were you really the one who closed that door, or did someone else pull it shut from behind you?

Can silence sometimes be like a "sieve"? You can neither hold completely on to what flows through it, because it isn't enough to make a bowl with filled holes, nor can you completely let go, because the traces left by what has drained are still evident. But ask: Who pierced that sieve with holes, was it you, or did it come from someone else's hand?

Could silence sometimes be like "a rusty key left in a corner"? You can neither figure out which door it belongs to, because so much time has passed and its memory has faded, nor can you fully bring yourself to throw it away, because you think it might be useful one day. But ask yourself: Are you the one who keeps that key, or do you not even know who it belonged to?

Can silence sometimes be like "a photo album misplaced"? You find neither the courage to take the album out and fix it, because facing what’s inside is burdensome, nor can you completely let go and leave, because there’s a chance you might look at it once in a while. But ask yourself: Were you the one who placed that album in the wrong spot, or did you submit to someone else's random arrangement?

Can silence sometimes be like "a radio frequency tuned twenty times"? You can neither find the right channel, due to the constant interference of others, nor can you turn it off, because one day you believe you will hear the right voice. But ask: Who is scrambling that frequency, you or other hands?

Can silence sometimes feel like "a half-finished craft"? You can't completely unravel the thread, because the traces of the effort you lost remain in your hands, nor can you continue, as you find it hard to remember what you started. But ask: Who made that stitch, you, or did someone else's knitting end up in your hands?

Can silence sometimes be like "a dusty drawer"? You look inside, because maybe you're afraid of finding something you forgot, yet you don't completely shut it, as it leaves an impression of being ajar. But ask: Are you the one who opens that drawer every time, or are there some people you just can't seem to teach how to close it?

Can silence sometimes feel like "a card missing from an old deck of playing cards"? You can neither continue the game, as no other deck can replace it, nor can you set it aside completely, because the remaining cards keep telling a story. But ask: Were you the one who lost that card, or were you dealt a hand from an unfinished game?

Can silence sometimes be like "a weight forgotten on a crooked scale"? You can neither fix the scale, for it is frightening to find the measure that will restore balance, nor can you lift the weight, for it has marked both sides. But ask: Were you the one who placed that weight, or has the tilt of the scale been there from the very beginning?

Can silence sometimes be like "a dry clothesline"? You can neither snap and throw the line away, as there are tangled pegs hanging from it, nor can you hang anything on it because it no longer has the strength to bear any weight. But ask: Are you the one trying to keep that line taut, or is it the burden of the useless pegs hanging there?

Can silence sometimes be like "a millstone turning within itself"? You can neither stop the stone, because the sound of the burdens it grinds drowns out your mind, nor can you give up on what it grinds, because you want to know what the flour accumulating beneath it is. But ask: Who turned the stone, did you start this cycle, or is someone else's hand keeping it turning?

Can silence sometimes be like "the untearable page of an old wall calendar"? You can't tear that date off, because knowing that something has just stood there unsettles you, nor can you completely throw away the calendar, because every time you look at it, you search for an answer. But ask: Is the day left on that page something you've halted, or have others already hung a new calendar?

Can silence sometimes be like "a sealed letter"? You can neither open and read it because you fear what is written inside, nor can you completely destroy it, because perhaps those words belong to you. But ask: Did you seal it, or are you carrying a secret written with someone else's pen?

Can silence sometimes be like "a broken glass swept under a worn-out rug"? You can't lift the rug, because the shards that will come out can cut you; nor can you walk comfortably on top of the rug, because the roughness underneath always trips you up. But ask: Who broke that glass, did you pull the rug over it, or did the steps of others scatter the glass?

Can silence sometimes be like "a dulled key"? You can neither open that door, as the key no longer recognizes the lock, nor can you discard the key, because you believed that having it once held meaning. But ask: Who was it that wore down the teeth of that key—was it you, persistently forcing the same door, or was it others attempting the lock with the wrong key?

Can silence sometimes be like "a contract of employment that was never opened"? What can you sign and put on the table, because you can guess the weight of the terms within, and yet you can't completely ignore it, as its unexamined state leaves you unsettled. But ask: who wrote that contract, were they powerful enough to disregard your efforts, or did they think you would never work at all?

Can silence sometimes be like "a burned ironing board cover"? You get a new one because the marks of the old one are like lessons for you, and you don't continue to iron on it, because every new steam mark makes the previous one darker. But ask: Were you the one who burned that cover, or was it others who neglected the table?

Can silence sometimes feel like "silence"? It cannot be explained by a proverb, since every comment falls short, nor can it be completely forgotten, because in that emptiness everyone hears their own echo. But ask: Is that echo yours, or is it the voice of a crowd that never stops?

Can silence sometimes be like "a puzzle that is half complete"? You can neither complete all the pieces, because the missing ones always bother your eyes, nor can you just put it away in the box, because the possibility of finishing it one day keeps you occupied. But ask: Who lost those pieces, did you place them incorrectly, or did someone deliberately hide them?

Can silence sometimes be like "a dried plant hidden inside a closed jar"? You can neither open the lid and air it out, because the pieces will fly away, nor can you leave it there completely, because it will become even more barren as time goes on. But ask: When did you place that plant there, could there still be a living seed inside?

Can silence sometimes be like "a dish slipped from your hands"? You neither grab it and wash it again right away, because the thought of it being broken nags at your mind, nor do you leave it there, because it would soak the floor and make everything more complicated. But ask: Were the hands holding that dish wet, or was it already standing on a slippery surface?

Can silence sometimes be like "a forgotten alarm clock on a table"? You can't set it up to measure time, because the sound would annoy you, nor can you completely stop it, because you think it might be needed one day. But ask: What moment did you get that clock to measure, is it still worth remembering time?

Can silence sometimes be like "a jar of jam forgotten behind the kitchen cabinets"? You neither open the lid to taste it, for the possibility that it might be spoiled turns your stomach, nor do you completely throw it away, because that old flavor was something you once loved. But ask: When did you stop rummaging through that cabinet, or was it already filled by someone else?

Can silence sometimes be like "an unopened pack of pasta"? What do you cook and put on the table, since you don't remember what it tasted like before, and what do you throw away, fearing scarcity? But ask: Was it your fear of starvation that kept that pack on the shelf, or was it someone else who gave up knowing they wouldn't be satisfied anyway?

Can silence sometimes be like "a pot forgotten on the stove"? You neither lift the lid to stir it because you know it might have already burned, nor do you completely take it off the heat because there might still be a part worth saving. But ask: were you the one who turned the bottom of that pot, or did you unintentionally forget about it, unaware that someone else had left it behind?

Can silence sometimes feel like "an old tape player"? You neither listen to it from beginning to end because the songs no longer affect you that much, nor do you completely close it and put it away because a muffled melody still draws you in somewhere. But ask: were you the one rewinding the tape and playing it again, or did someone leave the song halfway through while messing with the tape?

Could silence sometimes be like "a clothesline forgotten on the balcony"? You neither take down the line, as it still seems to bear weight, nor do you hang more laundry, for there is no longer room for it to dry in the sun. But ask yourself: when did you last collect the last pieces of laundry from that line, or has everything flown away in the winds of the past?

Can silence sometimes be like "a door left unlocked on the key?" You neither open it and go inside, because you think what’s inside no longer belongs to you, nor do you completely shut it, since you wait with the hope of returning one day. But ask: Were you the one who turned the key and looked for the last time, or had someone else already crossed the threshold of the door long ago?

Could silence sometimes be like "a lemon stuck in and forgotten in a trash bag"? You can't take the bag out to get rid of the smell, because it's become mixed in with the other trash, nor can you just leave it there, because at some point it will overflow and disturb everyone. But ask: Were you the one who let that lemon rot, or was it someone else who realized that there was nothing left to squeeze?

Can silence sometimes be like "a bookmark"? Where you neither pick it up to continue reading because the place you left off no longer resonates with you, nor completely discard it, as you feel attached to the incompleteness of a hidden story within it. But ask: Were you really the one who placed that bookmark there, or might you have long been lost in another story altogether?

Can silence sometimes be like "a scratched record that still keeps playing"? It neither stops turning, because somehow it still makes a sound, nor can you completely remove it, because in every scratch there lies a hope of catching that old melody again. But ask: Were you the one who scratched that record and then put it back, or are you the one who continues to listen, accepting the marks left by others?

Can silence sometimes be like "a clock that has forgotten to pull its own cord"? It is neither dead as the battery has run out, because you can still hear the tick-tock, nor does it show the correct time, as it is nothing more than a pile-up of seconds. But ask: Were you the one who kept winding that clock, or was it someone else who chose not to make peace with time?

Can silence sometimes be like "an empty frame"? You neither place a new photo inside because you can't find a moment that belongs there, nor do you throw the frame away, hoping that maybe one day something will come along to put there. But ask: Are you the one who hung that frame on the wall, or are you watching someone else leave it empty?

Can silence sometimes be like "an unplugged cord"? You neither completely cut off the electricity, as you still expect something to be working, nor do you actively use it, because for now it just takes up space. But ask: Were you the one who left that cord plugged in, or does no one even remember what it was doing there?

Can silence sometimes be like "a letter delivered to the wrong address"? You neither return it, because your name isn’t on it, nor do you open it, because you don’t want to get involved in someone else’s story. But ask: Who sent that letter, and was it really a mistake, or was it a message meant for you?

Can silence sometimes be like "a can that has been opened but not eaten"? You neither completely throw it away, because there’s still a chance it might be fresh, nor do you open and consume it, because it may have gone bad already, but you can’t put the lid back on. But ask: Were you the one who opened that can and left it, or are you watching someone else taste its contents and forget?

Can silence sometimes feel like "a forgotten item on the shopping list"? You don't realize it until the end of the list when time and effort have already been spent, nor do you completely ignore it, because you'll notice its absence at home. But ask: Were you the one who forgot to write that item down, or was it someone else who wrote it and crossed it out?

Silence can sometimes be like "jam in the cupboard that's past its expiry date," right? You neither throw it away immediately, since it seems like not much has changed, nor do you put it on the table, because you know it doesn't taste the same as before. But ask yourself: were you the one who decided to keep that jam in the cupboard, or did you wait for someone else to leave it there, thinking it might come in handy one day?

Can silence sometimes be like "a coin stuck under a table"? What do you take out and use, because it's hard to see exactly how many there are, nor do you completely forget it, because knowing it’s there is somehow comforting. But ask: Were you the one who dropped that coin there, or is it someone else who hopes to find it stuck there one day when it's needed?

Can silence sometimes be like "a candle that hasn't been lit yet but is ready to burn"? You neither start it with fire, feeling that you don't need the light, nor do you completely extinguish it, knowing that it might be needed in the dark. But ask: Were you the one condemning that candle to wait there, or was it someone else imagining a moment when it would ignite?

Could silence sometimes feel like "a canceled invitation"? You neither completely forget it, because no one talks about it, nor do you make other plans, because there’s still a chance you might be called back. But ask yourself: Were you the one canceling that invitation, or were you just saved from having to be somewhere you never wanted to be?

Can silence sometimes feel like "an item that has fallen to the ground but no one picks it up for fear of tripping over it"? You neither lift it, because no one feels it belongs to them, nor is it guaranteed that you won't bump into it, because it still remains a potential obstacle. But ask: Who dropped that item and why did everyone choose to ignore it?

Can silence sometimes be like "silence"? Do you derive meaning from the loads, since nothing has been said, or do you see it as completely empty, because even the absence there implies something? But ask: Perhaps you need to understand that silence is an opportunity to listen to its own voice?

Can silence sometimes be like "a phone left on but not ringing"? You neither turn it off, because you expect someone might call, nor do you hope for it to ring, as its light disturbs even from a distance. But ask: Is there anything left worth keeping that phone on for?

Can silence sometimes be like "an undisclosed debt"? You neither confront it all of a sudden, because the time hasn't come, nor do you forget it, because it's always calculated somewhere. But ask: Who really pays the price for carrying the burden of this debt?

Can silence sometimes feel like "the arrangement that makes it seem like there’s only one door in a room"? You neither open the door and leave, thinking there’s no other way, nor do you feel comfortable inside the room, because you keep feeling constricted. But ask: who made that door the only option, and have you ever thought that there might be a window behind another wall?

Can silence sometimes be like "a key stuck somewhere by mistake"? What do you take out, because you've forgotten which lock it opens, and what do you leave there, because you think it might be useful one day? But ask: Did you put that key there, or were you carrying it for a door you never intended to open?

Can silence sometimes be like "a faucet you leave running without realizing it"? You neither fully turn it off, because the sound of the dripping gives a strange sense of peace, nor do you ignore the water flowing wastefully, because you know somewhere you are consuming something. But ask yourself: When you realize the cost of this silence, would you still prefer to live with that sound?

Silence can sometimes feel like "wet laundry left in the washing machine," can’t it? You don’t hang it up because you’re too lazy, and you don’t wash it again because it feels wasteful. But ask yourself: how long can you tolerate that smell spreading?

Can silence sometimes be like "a bike with a flat tire"? You neither fix it, because it seems too difficult to deal with, nor do you completely abandon it, because you think you might need it one day. But ask yourself: When will you accept that you can't get anywhere with that bike?

Can silence sometimes be like "a broken hourglass"? You can measure no time because the sand doesn’t flow, nor can you completely throw it away, because it still carries the traces of the past within it. But ask: Whose permission do you give to determine time on a stopped clock?

Can silence sometimes be like "a kite string you forgot to hold on to"? You neither have the strength to chase after what has gone with the wind, nor can you let it slip from your hands comfortably, because losing control of something makes you uneasy. But ask yourself: Did you really want to fly that kite, or was it enough for you just to let it be?

Can silence sometimes be like "a button that has never been sewn on before"? It neither gets sewn on, because it's hard to find the hole, nor do you throw it away, because the craftsmanship is precious. But ask: Is that button actually a garment waiting to be sewn, or is it just a carrier of a memory?

Can silence sometimes be like "an iron plug you forgot to unplug"? You neither pull the plug, because you’ve been distracted by other things, nor do you leave it behind, because you feel that something will be missing when you take it out. But ask: What are you still waiting to heat in that socket?

Can silence sometimes be like "a radio playing on the wrong frequency"? You neither turn it off completely, because silence can be more unsettling, nor do you fully listen, because it constantly crackles. But ask: What do you hope to hear on that frequency?

Could silence sometimes be like "a dream you forgot to wake up from"? Neither do you get completely lost in it, as reality becomes blurred, nor do you choose to wake up immediately, as staying in the moment feels safe. But ask: Is this dream really yours, or are you just a supporting actor in someone else's story?