Silence. That serene, restorative space we imagine in our most stressed-out moments. It’s the promise of a still mind, a world free from chaos, a refuge where we can finally breathe. Yet, as anyone who’s ever sat in a truly quiet room will tell you, silence isn’t silent at all. Instead, it hums, buzzes, and screams with an unnerving intensity. For my grandfather, a man who spent World War II working in coal mines, silence wasn’t peace—it was an unrelenting reminder of the noise he’d left behind.
The Myth of True Silence
We’re conditioned to think of silence as an absence, a void where nothing exists. But true silence doesn’t exist—not for humans, at least. Even in the quietest places, there’s always the gentle rustle of air, the faint thrum of a distant motor, or the heartbeat ticking away in your chest. And if you strip all that away, there’s the sound of your own body: blood coursing through your veins, the whoosh of your breathing, and that curious hum your brain creates just to keep you company.
This was a fact my grandfather understood all too well. He was a coal miner during the Second World War, part of the “Bevin Boys,” a generation of men conscripted not to the frontlines but to the dark, deafening pits beneath the ground. For years, his days were filled with the clatter of machinery, the explosive blasts of dynamite, and the echoing shouts of men working in near-total darkness. Silence was a luxury he rarely encountered, and when he finally did, it betrayed him.
The Endless Ringing of Tinnitus
After the war, my grandfather left the mines, but the mines never quite left him. Like so many men who spent their lives in the clanging chaos of industrial work, he developed tinnitus—a phantom sound conjured by the brain in response to damaged hearing. For him, it was a high-pitched ringing that never stopped, day or night. He used to joke that it was the sound of the universe telling him to get back to work.
Science tells us that tinnitus is caused by damaged hair cells in the cochlea, those tiny structures in the ear that convert sound vibrations into electrical signals for the brain. When these cells are destroyed—by loud noises, for example—the brain compensates by creating its own noise. It’s like a phantom limb, but for your ears: the sound is real, but it has no source.
To my grandfather, though, tinnitus wasn’t just an annoying hum. It was a haunting reminder of the mines, where the air was thick with coal dust and the din of work drowned out any chance of peace. For him, silence had a cruel sense of humour.
Life in the Mines: A Symphony of Chaos
The soundscape of a coal mine is nothing short of apocalyptic. Imagine the roar of machinery echoing off stone walls, the distant thunder of controlled explosions, and the eerie silence that follows as men wait to see if the ceiling holds. Add to that the constant hiss of steam, the clank of metal against rock, and the ever-present murmur of human voices shouting commands or warnings.
My grandfather often described the mines as both deafening and oddly intimate. The noise was a constant presence, but it was also a shield. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts, let alone dwell on the dangers around you. And yet, when he finally emerged from the pits for good, the silence of his retirement was deafening in its own way.
Why Silence Brings Existential Dread
For most of us, silence is something we actively seek out. We meditate, we escape to quiet countryside retreats, we put on noise-canceling headphones. But when we finally find it, silence often feels more oppressive than the chaos we’re trying to escape.
There’s a reason for this. Noise, for all its faults, is a distraction. It gives us something to focus on outside ourselves. Silence, on the other hand, forces us to confront the internal chaos we’d rather ignore. In the absence of sound, our thoughts grow louder. Every regret, every anxiety, every half-formed worry rises to the surface like air bubbles in a still pond.
This is why silence can feel suffocating, even in the most peaceful settings. And for someone like my grandfather, whose life was defined by noise, silence was a constant reminder of what had been lost—not just the camaraderie of his fellow miners but the sense of purpose that came with the work.
The Quietest Place on Earth Is Terrifying
If you’ve ever wanted to know what true silence sounds like, you could visit an anechoic chamber. These rooms are specially designed to block out all external sound, creating an environment so quiet that you can hear your blood flowing.
Sounds peaceful, right? Wrong. Most people can’t last more than a few minutes in an anechoic chamber without feeling disoriented or even panicked. The extreme silence forces your brain to focus on the internal noises of your body, and the effect is profoundly unsettling.
My grandfather, a man who scoffed at modern luxuries, would have found the idea of paying for such an experience laughable. “I got paid to hear nothing,” he might have said, “but it came with a coal mine attached.”
Coping with the Noise of Silence
For my grandfather, living with tinnitus was a quiet act of resilience. He never complained about the ringing in his ears, though it must have been maddening at times. Instead, he found ways to drown it out. He kept a small radio by his chair, always tuned to the low hum of talk radio or classical music. He said it wasn’t so much about listening as it was about having something else to focus on.
It’s a strategy that’s backed by science. Background noise, like a fan or soft music, can help mask the sound of tinnitus and make it more bearable. But for my grandfather, it was also about reclaiming control. The mines had stolen his silence, but he refused to let them steal his peace.
The Humorous Irony of Silence
There’s a dark humour to the way silence works. It promises peace but delivers dread. It offers rest but demands introspection. And for those like my grandfather, who lived through the cacophony of war and industry, silence isn’t an escape—it’s an echo.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing. After all, silence reminds us that we’re alive. The hum of tinnitus, the whoosh of blood, the whisper of breath—they’re all signs that, despite everything, we’re still here. My grandfather’s tinnitus may have been a nuisance, but it was also a testament to a life lived fully, noisily, and unforgettably.
Conclusion: The Sound of Your Own Mind
Silence is rarely what we expect it to be. It’s not an absence but a presence, a reminder of the noise that lives within us all. For my grandfather, silence was both a burden and a gift—a way to remember the mines and the life he built after them.
So the next time you sit in a quiet room and hear the faint hum of your own existence, don’t be afraid. Embrace it. It’s the sound of life persisting, even in the quietest moments. And if it gets too loud, just do what my grandfather did: turn on the radio, make a cup of tea, and carry on.
James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.
Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.
A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.
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