After hours of wearing them on the train, my earplugs become tight and inevitably uncomfortable; they loosen and eventually fall out. This slipping is not only mechanical, but also rhythmic. My body moves, shifts, breathes. This physical uncanniness increases over time, felt through the tightness in my ear, the feeling of pressure.
The earplug, which is made of compressible foam or silicone, deforms under pressure, but slowly expands, exerting force on the contours of my ears, which bear a strong resemblance to those of my grandfather. The shape, which is slightly more pronounced at certain angles, reinforces the feeling that the earplug is pressing into the soft folds of my skin and not fitting properly. Its fit therefore depends on how well it clings to my inner ear to form the temporary barrier that promises harmonious quietness.
What remains constant is this rhythmic adaptation. Every few minutes I push them back into place. But the quietness is never that stable. My neighbor’s gum chewing, my own shallow breathing, even the pulse in my skull – they all disturb this fragile emerging quietness that is readapted by pushing them back in.
The earplug is not only blocking sounds and embedding us in Silence, it contracts quietness with new internal currents. This Quietness is a process of meaning, not the pleasure of sound and silence.