Silence: Why I write

Silence.
I stared out the window at the empty street. I waited for something to move, anything. My room was still; the street, still; the golden trees that lined the roads, still. The world, everything, was still, quiet. I needed to see movement. I yearned for the breeze to sweep the cracking leaves across the deserted road. I longed for a squirel to scamper across the front lawn. I desired to see a single cloud drift across the empty sky. I waited. Nothing.
I needed reassurance. I wanted to know everything was alright. That my life was not paused. I did not budge. I remained perched at my spot at the window. My breathing was so soft, so shallow, I could barely tell I was breathing.  I desperately craved to know I was alive, that the world was continuing to turn. I waited. Nothing.
I wanted to feel something, but my limp body was numb. I pressed my face against the cold foggy window, the first movement in what seemen like hours. It felt no different against my cold skin. The thermastat was in the sixties, but I could not feel the cold. I felt no desire for a jacket to cover my bare arms, or socks for my bare feet. There were no goosebumps, no shivers. I pressed my feet into the carpet, but I could not feel the rough fibers rubbing against my dry toes. I continued to work for feeling to return. I waited. Nothing.
I listened for a sound. Straining my ears, patience running out, nervousness creeping through my vains and reaching every last inch of my being, I waited. I thought there was a tingling about my body from the spreading of fear, but if there was I could not feel it. There was not a sound. I hoped for a whistle, the whisper of the missing wind, the chirp of a lonely bird, a cricket's call. I wanted sound, but afraid to say something. Scared that my shouts would escape my mouth and disapear without a sound. I had to know my life was not muted. I waited. Still Nothing.
I wanted to cry, but my eyes were dry. I wanted to tell someone, but I had no one to tell, no one to turn to. I wanted someone to listen. I had the words. I had thousands of words, millions. I just needed someone to care, someone to stop and pay attention. I had a hunger for someone to exist besides myself, for someone who understood. I thirsted for someone to come into my life, anyone. I waited. Nothing.
And so I began writing. Getting my thought, desires, wants, needs, cares, down on paper. I felt alive. I knew somewhere, someone, would read my words, would see my needs, would know my thoughts, would feel my pain, would hear my desires. And for that someone, who I can encourage, inspire, I write.
And so I began.
Silence.
I stared out the window at the empty street...