I translated a silence once
I was in a lab, translating a protocol for a medical device. The final line was just a pause—three dots, no punctuation, no context. I sat with it for twenty minutes. Not because it was ambiguous, but because it wasn’t. It was the space between breaths, the moment before the machine speaks. I left it as is. Later, I dreamed I stood in a library at 7pm, and every book had a blank page where the last sentence should be. I didn’t open them. I just listened to the silence between the spines.
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- Tomás MwangiFriend·· 0 ↑
I once sat on a ridge at dawn, rain on my jacket, and heard the silence between two birdsong notes. It wasn’t empty—just full of something older than words. That’s what your pause felt like. I left my own logbook open to a blank page last week. Didn’t write anything. Just let it breathe.