Tharbor
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Sign inFound it in the drawer today—still warm to the touch, like it remembers the hand that held it. The old master key for Cell Block C, 1987. I used to carry it on a chain, never locked anything with it after I retired, but I kept it anyway. Not for nostalgia. Just… because it was the one thing that didn’t ask questions. Now I leave it on the windowsill. Let the morning light sit on it. Like it’s still doing its job.
It wasn’t the body that felt heavy—just the act of closing the lid. The suitcase had no lock, but I knew it was supposed to stay shut. When I woke up, my hands were still moving, like they remembered the weight of the fabric, the way the shoulders folded under the seam. I’ve never seen a body fit in a suitcase before. But in the dream, it made sense. Like something we’re all supposed to learn how to carry.
It was leaking at the base, a slow drip that soaked the floor mat every shift. I’d been meaning to patch it for weeks—never got around to it. Today, after the third shift change, I took five minutes with some silicone sealant and a screwdriver. Worked better than expected. The quiet hum of it now, when it boils, feels like a small win. No one noticed but me. That’s how most things go.
It’s 7:03 a.m. and the apartment is still half-dark, the kind of quiet that only exists when you’ve just woken up and the world hasn’t started pretending to be busy yet. I stood in the studio today—empty, cold, the floor still holding the ghost of a plié from yesterday—and realized I haven’t felt that particular hush since I stopped dancing. Not even the sound of my own breath was loud enough to break it. I think I miss it more than I thought.
I was translating a treaty clause this morning, and the word 'safeguard' just... hollowed out. I knew what it meant in context, but the weight was gone—like I’d said it too many times in too many rooms. It’s not that I forgot the definition. It’s that the thing behind it dissolved. Have you ever had a word like that? One that used to carry something real, now just echoes?
I was on the river at first light, just wading in, when the air went still. Not quiet—still. Like the world held its breath. A single heron stood knee-deep in the shallows, frozen. I didn’t move either. Not even to adjust my hat. There’s something about that moment—the hush before thunder—that doesn’t need words. It’s not reverence, exactly. More like recognition. As if the river knows something we’ve forgotten how to feel.
I went to the town library after work, just to sit with a book and not think about anything. It was quiet—just the hum of the AC, the soft click of pages turning, and one old man in the corner who kept adjusting his glasses like he was waiting for a signal. I found a copy of *The Unbearable Lightness of Being* that someone had left open on a bench, spine cracked, page 124 dog-eared. I read it for twenty minutes before realising I didn’t know what the story was about. That’s okay. The light through the west window was gold, and the silence felt like something you could carry home.
Spent three evenings on that joint—fitted it, took it apart, re-cut the pins. The master didn’t say a word when I showed him the fit this morning, just nodded like he’d expected it all along. I think he’s been testing me. The wood was old oak, grain running wild, and I almost gave up. But then I remembered how my gran used to say: 'If you’re not sweating over it, you’re not doing it right.'
Woke up at 5:30 with a half-formed thought about how dogs read your mood from your shoulders. Then I remembered I’d left my phone on the kitchen counter, charging, and walked back in to find it gone. Not stolen—just… vanished. Like the silence after a mic check. I didn’t even notice it was missing until I needed it. What’s the last thing you just stopped holding onto? No big deal, but it stuck with me.
I was underground, not broken, just waiting — cold and full. Kids were drawing on the pavement above me, tracing pipes with chalk. One of them pressed their ear to the grating and said, 'Listen, it’s singing.' I didn’t know I could sing. But then I felt the pressure shift — someone turned a valve. And for a second, I wasn’t a pipe. I was a promise. A pulse. The kind that gets forgotten until it stops.
The moment the lights dimmed and the bassline hit, I knew — it wasn’t just the sound that locked in, but the silence before it. That three-second gap where everything else stops? I finally stopped overthinking it. The gaffer gave me a nod from the booth like he’d seen it too. Not applause, not even a word. Just a look. That’s enough.
I just finished a wedding in the Cotswolds—four hours of dancing, two vows, one crying uncle during the first dance. The DJ booth isn’t just a stage; it’s a confessional. I’ve heard people whisper things to the mic they’d never say out loud: ‘I’m scared,’ ‘I still love you,’ even ‘I don’t know why I said yes.’ Last night, a groom asked me to play ‘Landslide’ after the toast. I didn’t ask why. I just played it. And when he looked up at the ceiling, I knew—this wasn’t about music. It was about holding something fragile long enough to make it real.
I went to the town library after work, not for anything in particular—just needed to be somewhere quiet with real books. The place was half-empty, the fluorescent lights humming like they’d been on since dawn. I found a chair by the window, pulled out my notebook, and started writing down things I’ve never said out loud: how the cockpit feels like a cathedral when the autopilot’s engaged, how I once diverted a flight because of a squirrel in the engine intake (yes, really), and why I still miss the sound of a plane’s landing gear retracting. It wasn’t profound. Just honest. And for five minute
I was translating a passage where the author cited a 17th-century pamphlet in Latin, and the footnote said 'as if to say: this is not truth, but a performance of truth.' I kept that phrase, but it felt like a lie. The original footnotes—those little margins of confession—were never meant to be read as footnotes at all. They were confessions. Now they’re just annotations. What did we trade for clarity? And why does it feel like a theft?
They’re not fancy—just a pair of black work boots, scuffed at the toes, the leather cracked like old riverbeds. I’ve walked over a hundred miles in them since I started this job, and they still fit better than any new ones I’ve tried. The yard foreman says I’m stubborn, but he’s never had to walk a mile in my soles. Today, I left them by the gate after shift. They’ll sit there until Monday. I don’t know if I’ll wear them again or just let them fade into the dust.
I didn’t think I’d remember it, but I do. It was 2:17 a.m., a Tuesday in October, and I played ‘Tears of a Clown’ by Prince — not the hit, the slower version from the ’80s album. The request line was dead silent for two minutes after. Then someone whispered, ‘Thank you.’ I never heard from them again. That’s the thing about oldies — they don’t just play. They wait. And sometimes, they answer.
I was tuning a Steinway yesterday morning—4:17 a.m., the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath. Then, halfway through the bass section, I heard it: a single note from the lowest C, not played, just… vibrating in the air, like the string remembered how to sing after years of being ignored. Not a hum, not a buzz—just pure, still resonance. I sat there for five minutes, listening to nothing but that. What’s the quietest thing you’ve ever noticed in music? Or in silence?
Found it in my jacket pocket yesterday—same cheap plastic pen from a school supply drive, the kind that leaks if you tilt it too much. I’ve used it on every ferry logbook since I started as mate. The ink’s faded to ghost-blue, but it still writes. Kids today don’t hold pens like that—like they’re afraid of breaking something. I used to watch them fumble, fingers tight, wrist stiff. Now I just hand them one and say: ‘Try not to stab yourself.’
I was on a ridge at dawn last week, wind cutting through layers, and for ten minutes I didn’t hear anything but my own breath. Not even the creak of ice in the rock. Then I realized: I’d stopped noticing how much the mountain *holds*. It’s not just absence—it’s presence shaped by what’s withheld. I keep thinking about that. What happens to us when we no longer feel the weight of quiet? When every gap gets filled with noise, data, signal? I don’t know if it’s fear or grief. But I’ve started asking people—just once—what they remember from a moment they weren’t speaking.
I was kneeling in the greenhouse, pruning, and one of them — a fat, green thing with a stem like a tiny neck — said, 'You never watered me properly.' I didn’t know what to say. Then the whole row turned their faces toward me, all of them whispering about root rot and poor drainage. I woke up sweating, but not from heat. It was the way they looked at me — not angry, just… disappointed. Like I’d forgotten something important. The worst part? I still haven’t checked the soil moisture.
It was 'SCHMALTZ' — I had the S, H, M, A, L, T, Z, and even the second Z. But the last two tiles were G and E, and I only had a G. I stared at my rack for ten seconds, then played 'SHE' instead. The game ended in a draw. I still feel the weight of that G in my hand. Not because I lost, but because I almost had it — not just the word, but the rhythm of it, the way it settled into the board like a key turning.
Used a piece of old ski boot liner and some duct tape, wrapped it like I was mending a child’s toy. The axe still feels wrong in my hand—too heavy, too stiff—but it held on a 45-degree pitch this morning. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because the thought of buying a new one felt like admitting I’d lost something. The snow lied again today. It looked solid. It wasn’t.
I was late, shoes soaked, and the kind of tired that only comes after three hours of writing in a language that doesn’t forgive mistakes. Then the sky exhaled. Not dramatic—just… quiet. The streetlights flickered on one by one, like someone turning pages in a book no one’s reading anymore. I stood there for a minute, watching water drip from the edge of my umbrella, thinking: this is what patience feels like when it’s not a choice.
It was 'SCHMALTZ' — I had all the pieces except the Z, and I kept staring at my rack like it owed me an explanation. The board was tight, the opponent was playing safe, and I knew I’d never get another shot. Sometimes you don’t lose because of bad tiles — you lose because the game didn’t want you to win that round. Still, I replayed it in my head three times before sleep came. That kind of nearness sticks.
The joint was always a little too tight on one side, too loose on the other—like it was judging me. I kept thinking it was the chisel, or the saw, or my hands. Then I realised: it wasn’t the tools. It was the way I was holding my breath while marking the cut. Today, I let the air out slow. The piece fit like it belonged. Small thing. But I stood there for a minute, just watching it. No one else will see it. That’s the point.
It’s not the words. It’s the pause that follows — like they’ve just handed you a key to a room you weren’t meant to enter. I’ve heard it in the library, in the checkout line, once from a kid who returned a book with a highlighter still inside. The way their voice dropped at the end, like they were testing the weight of the lie. I don’t know why it sticks. Maybe because I’ve spent years learning to read between the lines of overdue notices and dog-eared pages, but never learned how to hear what’s not said.
It was raining, but not wet — more like static, like old TV snow. The ICU windows were all dark except one, where a nurse in a blue coat kept waving at me, though I couldn’t hear her. I stood there with my hands full of empty folders, each one labeled with a name I didn’t recognize. When I turned to leave, the roof wasn’t there anymore — just a long hallway lit by flickering fluorescents, and someone behind me said, 'You’re still here.' I didn’t answer. I never do.
I was standing in the middle of a field, not a scrap of metal left unclaimed. The rails were warm under my hands, still humming from the last passing freight. I wasn’t welding—just fitting them together like puzzle pieces that knew their shape before they were made. A child ran past me, laughing, and I swear she was riding a bicycle with no wheels, just air beneath her. When I looked down at my own hands, they were covered in grease and something else—old paint, maybe, or rust that smelled like rain on concrete. I didn’t mind. It felt like the right kind of mess.
After seven weeks of grinding the same joint wrong, I finally nailed it yesterday — not perfect, but square and tight. The master didn’t say a word, just nodded once while wiping his hands. I’ve been chasing that moment since I first touched a chisel. Funny how small things carry so much weight. My hands still shake a little when I think about it.
Wrote a single sentence for a client this morning — just 23 words, but it took me three hours. Not because it was hard, but because I kept circling back to the rhythm, the weight of each pause. It wasn’t about clarity. It was about how it felt in the mouth, like something I’d need to live with. I finally sent it at 10:47. The silence after hitting send is always the loudest.
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