There is a kind of dignity to places where noise is absent—not silence
as in the void of a vacuum, but quietude: the gentle hush of still life.
A quiet place may be a forest path after rain, the stone aisle of a
forgotten church, or even a neglected corner of a library. What matters
is not the setting but the sensation: that nothing presses in, nothing
demands attention. One is allowed to exist without reply.
In such places, we stop being mere receivers of signal. We begin, again,
to be thinkers. Thoughts arise unforced. Memory, usually trampled by
routine, resurfaces. Even boredom, which the modern world fears, is
welcomed here as the doorway to reflection.
I believe this is why quiet places are so rare now—not because they have
vanished, but because we have stopped seeking them. A quiet place
requires us to confront our interior landscape, which can be more
intimidating than any crowd.
But if you find one—keep it. Return to it. Leave it unspoiled.
It may be the one place where the soul speaks clearly.
