Silence

I'm lying at a park, taking pictures on my phone of small flowers, and basking in the isolation. One of my (very few) complaints about where I have moved to is the sound. The noises are all different, but constant, as I strain to read in my minuscule and extremely cherished moments of solidarity. I begin to wonder if the poorer the area the less likely it is to be quiet. I ponder this over furious shouting, and a closer man yelling to a friend whom must have been a lot farther than I. I am aware it is very stereotypical, and probably very ignorant seeming to say that the more money a person (or neighborhood) has the quieter they are. Do the rich have less to say? Are they simply taught to be more polite? More reserved? I am understanding of the noise here, I am at a park. Seconds later I hear a shrill squeal then pop. My head instinctually shoots up, only to see the tail end of a firework. I wonder the occasion, and consider my point (to myself) somewhat proven. As I walk away to leave DeFremery, two boys around my age are sitting to my immediate left on a cement bench. Today, I watched from drug deals to crotchet occur under these trees, but from as far as I could decern some people just come to sit. A man with a small, fluffy dog walks by and asks how I am, no idea if it was meant to be rhetorical, I answer and ask the same. He seemed very sweet, he replied "Okay", and I looked far too much into that. The boys watched me, I watched them too, through my exceptionally dark sunglasses. One begins to speak with me, upon reflection I notice that these sort of things make me happy, even IN their moments. I tell him that I am doing good, return the question out of habit. It's hardly picking someone up if they ask you if you are alright, and say they are worried about how tired you appear. Defeated vibrations. He probably felt the scraping of my feet from miles away. I did not slow my pace (obviously it was too slow to be slowed), and after denying his more forward remarks, his politeness towards me never faltered, I really appreciated that. Walking a lot more, I came to the conclusion that I do not give people a chance for only one of two reasons (or normally, a combination of the two). The first, a crippling nervousness; inadequacy matched with that deer in head lights/cat's got your tongue sensation I feel any chance that I can get. The second, the painful fear that the person of potential chance-giving will eventually show to me their true self, which I would find shallow, hallow, and for a lack of a better phrase, not worth it. I kicked myself for letting the perfect division (fifty fifty) get the best of me, and allowed myself, as I always do, to make everything about everything, which seemingly is only myself.
The graffiti is so profound here, I love the thrill of connecting with a person who connected with me, who could have been anyone, for reasons I shall never know.
As cliche as it may sound, I really do feel indebted to other's to pay them with the same respect, and honesty that they show to me. On the other hand, if met with the opposition, I will be nothing but tricks and deception.