Rustic Cyberpunk

Coffee. Code. Cabins.

Echoes

2 min read

I'm alive.

I've been in my apartment since March 18th. My building now seems abandoned from the outside, with the exception of the occasional maintenance dutifully carried out by the building supervisor. I haven't seen him or his family in person for days, but it's comforting to see his influence. Aside from a few neighbors, my floor is empty.

I can't do any more woodworking since going out for lumber is out of the question and I want to save my tools and the few remaining supplies for when I'll really need them. My roommate has gone to stay with his family for a while.

When I first moved into my apartment, I was delighted at how quiet it was at night, especially since a city is hardly a serene environment. Over the years, a few drips of motorcycles at midnight turned into a collapsing roof on my serenity which, thankfully, subsided the last few years. I think increased constraints on noise pollution helped. The pandemic has turned that serenity into an eerie silence at night.

For the last few days, I'm rediscovering the sounds of a living structure. I can hear little creaks which didn't phase into perception before. Rumbles of vent fans on the roof. And even birds. I used to run away into the woods in winter to find this kind of ambiance, but I never imagined I'd find it at home. I've used the label countless times, but this is the first time I thought of my apartment as truly my "home".

I thought by now, I would have gone completely mad by staying home, but I'm oddly comfortable being alone with my own thoughts than ever before.

I'm learning how silence works again.

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