Alone In a Quiet Room: What do you hear?

The bedroom is dark, something of a necessity I thought when first settling in to work on this piece. Our world is filled with so much information, so much outside stimulation that it is easy to miss the simplest thing, something that has always been there. Perhaps even something we have taken for granted.

As I sit poised to tackle this prompt I close my eyes, still my breath, and simply listen.

First comes the high alto of a woman's voice accompanied by the lower, graceful base of several men blended together in a near hypnotic harmony. It is something of a relaxation method of mine to listen to Gregorian chant while writing; the variation from soft feminine harmony to masculine cadence as on more than one occasion helped focus my thoughts as well as provide inspiration when the dreaded writers block rears it's ugly head. Now a change, the threaded beauty of the Alto switches as the play list changes; replaced by a more haunting exchange that speaks of a longing for the unknown. I've never thought to read up on the songs or their translations...I tend to simply let the music move me.

Beneath the harmonics softly echoing from my speakers is the gentle hum of my computer tower, twin fans cycle in constant motion, a small cyclone geared to maintain optimum temperature. Every now and then I can hear the soft grinding click of the hard drive processing information as it is received. Beyond the sound of the computer I can hear the gentle snoring of my roommate, something he does in greater octaves when his day has been particularly hard. It's an odd sound, almost like a dry rasp more than what one would consider a healthy snore; still I rather prefer the rasp to the chainsaw.

Outside I can hear the silky sound of water spilling from my fish tank, a sound that can certainly become less than pleasant if I don't keep an eye on the water levels; what was once a soothing sound can become comparable to a faucet left turned on high for too long. Along with the sound of filtered water is the gentle tap of rain against the window of my bedroom, like the fingers of a small child gently brushing against the covered glass. I find myself surprised by this sound, unexpected as it is after a week of frigged temperatures and snow.

I open my eyes and turn to look out the window.