Veil of Silent Voices
An imaginative/discursive hybrid composed by Charlotte (Year 12 Advanced)
Some people live their lives in a silence that is not peace and solitude but a slow cascading void, a world where words crumble like dust scattered like grains of sand, impossible to hold onto. Only the faint rumble of vibrations speak, the melody floats endlessly trying to be set free but it's trapped in others ear, it's a distant euphony so Near but yet so far, although it isn't here.
The air around her pulsed with relentless energy, the city unfolded in a blur of movement, flashing lights painted fleeting patterns on rain slicked pavement, the resonance of footsteps thrummed through the soles of her barren shoes. Faces elapsed close by, as mouths moved in rapid unintelligible shapes and their voices a silent film she could never hear. Her world only consists of soft echoes, a silence if you will that no one could cross, no matter how close they came, whilst the rest of civilisation consists of voices, speech, laughter and unspoken consensus. In her eyes, it's alien...novel. Newspeak she sees it as. The common language of society is speech, and for her it’s like an empty orchestra as she has broken all the strings, a dictionary becomes her obituary, as speaking is a written notice of death, as it does not exist and one she’ll never be able to master.
In a place where the city's gaze never strayed beyond itself, her hands became the voice that pierced through the noise of vanity, signing in the half-light of hope that the flame of her thoughts would be ignited and not extinguished. Though all she ever received was a blank puzzled expression, lips forming in an “I’m sorry”. Backs were turned against her, even with all her cards drawn, yet fortune never smiled in her way.
The spoken world was narrow and confining.
She steps into the cycle again and again, a silent mantra echoing in her mind: “it's not their fault”. As she signed to herself, the words shaking in her hands, so fragile against the suffocating walls of her claustrophobic thoughts- each repetition both a balm and a prision, and in that she became a silent witness to a mode that no longer holds space for her peculiar voice, she came to be invisible and painfully exposed to the affray , as Newspeak was a locked room and she stands outside.
Months slipped quietly into years, each one folding into the next. I assume she remained as the world saw her: a soundless murmur, trapped and entwined in its own web. Even now, fragments of that encounter linger in my mind—her gestures, her silence, the weight of words left unspoken. I find myself returning to that day, searching for the meaning she tried to press into the space between us, how her fingers moved in a romantic waltz, only I didn't know the rhythm nor the steps.
So I stood there.
Heedlessly.
Oblivious.
Looking back on that moment, I now understand that I won’t repeat the same mistake of leaving her, nor will I ignore how others in society cant use speech, instead, using hands to become their voice and eyes their ears.
As Matthew Henry stated “None so deaf as those that will not hear. None so blind as those that will not see". He emphasised that people who are unwilling to listen to and acknowledge the truth are effectively deaf or blind to it, and with that it taught me that hearing and non hearing was like a parallel linguistic universe, something common yet not easily accessible or noticed.
I never learned her name that day, but I've now learned to appreciate the richness in language that may not solely be sound but expression, and our world of speech illuminates that loss of expression for some individuals. Still I can say the challenge is still faced of “How do we dismantle the invisible walls of Newspeak that silence so many?’’
As winter decided to pour over, the rain fell in desperate cries of release. In the distant fog I notice a silhouette, faint but familiar. My feet lead me in this stranger's direction, unable to stop myself as curiosity submerges my very being. Closer and closer my feet took me and with that this stranger is now in clear view. Hair darker than onyx, eyes glistening brighter than the diamonds on the pristine waters. Nothing could prepare me for who stands before me. I slowly raise my hands and weave my fingers in a symphony; her eyes widened in pure shock, her eyes began to tear up like someone has finally been able to find the key and unlock the doors to her thoughts that now no longer echo in the halls.
My index finger points to my chest, then I move my hand, hovering over my mouth and I move it in slow circular motions.
“I'm sorry”
Two gestures.
That's all it took, and she knew what I was saying.
In that silent conversation, a bridge was built—not of spoken whispers, but of shared understanding.
For the first time, the silence was not a void but a living, breathing space where two souls could finally meet. And in that quiet communion, I realised: we do not ignore the silence; we simply forget to listen to its language.
