Early morning, 3:54 AM.

I wake up, get up, and glance out the window. How beautiful it is. The river is cloaked in a blue mist, with the ghostly shapes of the trees on the opposite bank just barely visible behind the passing veil of fog. The water, usually flowing, stands perfectly still, like a mirror, in the riverbed.

It’s so quiet, I feel like I could reach out and touch it.

This summer’s waterfowl chicks, who spend their days bobbing along the river current and chirping with new life, now sleep in the shelter of willows near the water’s edge. They don’t notice as I tiptoe barefoot to the shore, wearing my oversized wool sweater. I couldn’t find my shoes, but I did grab my camera. It’s surprisingly warm.

I stand quietly for a moment on the shore and stare. My thoughts drift through my mind like the mist over the river. Quietly and slowly, hazy and without stopping. I don’t hold onto any of them—they’re free to go. It feels like I’m still dreaming.

The silence carries far. The village sleeps, nature sleeps. It’s just me and the softly moving mist. As if a filter has descended on the world, soaking up all the sounds. I feel a deep sense of peace and happiness. In perfect silence.

I’ve been reading and reflecting a lot about silence lately. I’ve delved into introvert literature and recognized myself more and more as fitting that type. Possibly as a highly sensitive person as well. These are two major reasons why I live in the north, as far away from everything as possible—away from noise, people, sound, and stimuli.

Silence is so easy to fill. In conversation. In nature. In life. It gets filled. If you want to keep silence quiet, it takes effort. It takes courage and patience to empty your senses and just be.

But our senses aren’t meant to be constantly stimulated, full, and nearly on high alert. We get tired and worn out without even realizing it.

From silence emerge thoughts and feelings that are often pushed aside by the flood of external stimuli. They don’t disappear but rather step back, only to resurface at some later point, perhaps in situations where they don’t belong—if only they were allowed to express themselves when their time had come. If you pour more liquid into a bottle that’s already full, it spills out uncontrollably.

Creativity, especially, needs silence. Even boredom. Emptiness. Time. These are things we no longer seem to have in this world, and when we do, they’re harnessed for efficiency. Like damming a wild river, destroying its natural flow and environment. It may produce something for us, but in a very limited and unintended way.

We need silence. Not just introverts and the highly sensitive. We all need it, whether we want to admit it or not.

Let the silence be.