Everyday, I hear a million conversations. Many of them are unspoken.
I consider it a painful privilege.
I often dwell on all the calls that never went through-calls that were disconnected even before I began to ring. Calls intended to convey emotions that somehow got lost in transit.
Some people pick me up and don’t say anything. They vacillate between sighs and silence. Between sigh-lence. They finger my little black cable listlessly. I curl around their fingers imperceptibly, to offer solace in the best way I can.
Then there are those who pick me up to rehearse what they want to say. Deaths. Breakups. Unwanted pregnancies. But they never get around to making the call. They leave me behind with the weight of their untold secrets.
But I’ve enjoyed a fair share of happy conversations. Promotions. Marriages. Birthdays. Listening to their squeals of pleasure, I produce a burst of static, unable to control my own excitement. But I take care not to cause too much disturbance and ruin the moment. There is only so much we can do as inanimate objects to partake in moments of joy.
I remember no names. Only sentiments.
If you were to take me apart one day, you’d see a vault of thoughts. Perhaps you’d find some of yours too.
And so I sit, for time to come, replaying conversations that don’t belong to me.
You always speak into me, through me. But someday, will you pick me up to just…speak to me?