I was in the computer science lesson, learning about speakers (devices responsible for amplifying sound) and microphones. When the teacher presented the features and components of the speaker, I had a brilliant and astonishing idea that we could generate electricity from sound. In reality, a speaker converts electricity to produce sound, while a microphone performs the opposite function. When we make a sound into a microphone, the diaphragm of the device vibrates and moves the coil inside, cutting the magnetic field within it. This process allows us to generate electricity, albeit in small amounts. Despite the low energy output, we discovered an almost unlimited source of energy. If we position the device in the middle of the walls of every room and connect them to a battery, we could obtain at least 480mW of energy. Although this amount of energy is relatively low, it can effectively recharge fitness trackers or smartwatches. Placing these devices in noisy streets, factories, or dance clubs could even allow us to recharge electric cars. Ultimately, we could generate electricity wherever it is needed. This highlights an advantage of sound energy over other sources like wind energy.

I was born aboard a roaring C130 over the airspace of the Caspian Sea. This was pre-9/11, so modern air travel rules on pregnancy didn't apply. My mother, petite and unassuming, escaped scrutiny with her tent-like dress. For some reason, the Air Force allowed her to accompany my father on assignment. Perhaps it was our Italian-sounding surname. Somehow, it was a passport to inaccessible areas. My mother's screams at childbirth upstaged the din of the C130's engines. This, together with my caterwauling, formed the backdrop of my entry into existence. Perhaps this was why I despised any sound above a certain decibel. Whenever I complained of loudness, regardless of the source, my mother would remind me of how I came into the world: “From noise you came, and to noise you will return.” Thus did I return. A life-altering event prompted me to revisit the land of my parents. I thought I'd stay a month, just long enough to tie up loose ends. Alas, offshoots materialized, forcing me to stay. Initially, I was happy to be here, having reconnected with friends and extended family. Now that I'm stuck here, I've ceased discovering pleasant things and have instead focused on annoyances. What I can't understand is the residents' affinity with noise. It's all-encompassing, yet no one seems to notice. Maybe you think I'm inflexible or used to living in fancy, quiet ‘First World' cocoons. But I've visited developing countries. This is, by far, one of the noisiest. Fortunately, my host lives in the suburbs—where I ensconce myself. I knew what this area was like 20 years ago. But it turned into a city. With this new status came progress—along with shopping malls, people, traffic, crime, and pollution. You would expect the noise to proliferate just in the primary city, not in ‘ex-burbs'. But it seemed the generators of noise got tired of subjugating the capital to its malevolence, and turned its sights instead to the formerly peaceful spot where I'm forced to park my hide. It starts with roosters crowing in the morning, followed by dogs barking, people talking/arguing, motorcycle engines rumbling. Late morning brings in blasts of music from amplifiers owned by neighbors dissatisfied with ordinary speakers; they MUST have turbo. Equally virulent is the venom of the traveling boombox in a tricycle. The driver, enamored with his favorite ditty, would crank up the volume for everyone to hear. Thankfully, midday provides a lull in the cacophony. Naptime for noise-mongers. I schedule my most important activities during this period. My rooster friends, however, manage to cackle in. I thought they only crowed at dawn or early mornings. Here, they squawk and scream at all hours. Is there a pattern? Nope. It could be 4 am, noon, or midnight. That blasted crowing would pierce into the darkness or the heat of the sun. Utter disregard for the clock. Why do the locals love roosters so much? Back home, there are zoning laws. You can't raise farm animals in residential areas. They're confined to the countryside and appropriate businesses. I searched for an explanation. Apparently, cockfighting is legal here. Roosters aren't just pets. They're worth a lot of money if successful in the ring. In the evening, reverberation from a microphone would signal in the most vexatious noise of all: karaoke time. Most singers are out of tune. Singing would go on until dawn. Later, the country's leader issued a no-karaoke rule after 10 pm. My sigh of relief was short-lived. People just ignored the law. Friend #1 had a karaoke bar for a neighbor. Singing went beyond curfew. One day, she couldn't take it anymore. Time to see if the law upholds. She called the municipality anonymously, citing the neighbor. The next day, the bar was closed down. Triumph! After listening to one of my tirades, Friend #2 remarked, “Maybe you should live in a cemetery.” She was being mean, of course, but I actually considered living in a mausoleum—a result of attempts to escape the noise. Alas, during my visit to the country's most prestigious memorial park, my ears were assaulted by sounds from lawnmowers, digging machines, and construction. This is one place you won't rest in peace. I thought of moving to the countryside. “Huh-uh. More chickens,” Friend #3 advised. “Why not try a monastery?” So I begged a priest-friend to take me in, offering rent. But he said, in order to live with the religious, you have to join them. Permanently. Yikes! Perhaps it was poverty. Making noise was a way to drive out demons, forget problems. For most of the populace, this was probably true. But these neighbors aren't poor. Theirs is a middle-class enclave. Maybe some people are just inconsiderate. Silence is golden. I still believe that. But I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice: give up the fight. You see, the event that led me here was the death of my mother and brother. Now alone, Father refuses to budge. His enemy is silence, not noise. For him, I will embrace my adversary.

The air around her smelled of ink, paper, and pencil lead. She scribbled her thoughts down but not even then could she even begin to fully understand. The people around her understood so why didn't she. It was like they had created a contract that contained an unsaid rule that everyone around her must never say anything and allow her to destroy the light inside on her own so they wouldn't leave evidence of their crime against her. It didn't take long for the light to almost completely diminish itself entirely. So while the world around her was filled with color, she herself slowly became as gray as the sky before a storm. Though sound was rare in her color drained mind, it still managed to be made by sinking into her invisible world of song. They never heard it fore it was there somewhere deep in her soul, somewhere where the light hadn't yet been extinguished. That little light was the only thing left in her. The only thing that kept her from completely disappearing. The light kept her from giving up on herself and gave her the slightest bit of hope that one day things would get better. Two years later, you can now find that same girl with a smile on her face and a friend or two by her side. It took some time but that little light soon became a flame that regained its strength creating a fire. A fire that she hopes to share with those who have let their light burn too low so they too can become the star they are meant to be. You don't have to be lonely like that little girl was. You don't have to be lonely like I was.

An array of colored stars dance and twinkle on the horizon above the blur of passing cars. There is a low rhythmic hum that stretches out to embrace me and entice me to explore. The air around me buzzes with electric energy as my muse beckons to me off in the distance, calling me back to my creative home. Within her, borders are the ingredients to shape a better future for myself. All of my senses are heightened with anticipation, my heart is racing, and my body is vibrating as if a colony of bees is buzzing on the surface of my skin. She is the only one who can make me feel this way, and her name is Chicago. Within her boundaries, possibilities are waiting on every street and down each alley. Chicago is a vibrant hub of art colleges, museums, and murals. Throughout the city is art in every form. Designers and architects have integrated color into every new development. The South Loop, for instance, has some astonishing displays of the modern art that has been splashed onto her ancient structures creating a harmonious combination of the contemporary and the antique. On the sidewalks surrounding these magnificent structures, sidewalk artists sketch, musicians play, and dancers move to the music of the city. Art flows down every corridor as a series of sound, color, and movement transforming the city into a magical sanctuary for the creative soul. Her skyscrapers and visitors become a living, breathing, abstract painting. In these moments Chicago is a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. On the surface, she is streaks of violent reds, splashes of depressing blacks and hopeful white spattered across her cityscape. At first glance, there appears to be no rhyme or reason to her chaos. Only ugliness, rage and hard, unforgiving surfaces. The mechanical inventions of modern technology eclipse the world beneath. Her buildings tower over her concrete turf, casting shadows on everything in their path. The day is a cacophony of noise, the pungent odor of exhaust and garbage rotting the sun. Above her streets, the clatter of her Amtrak can be heard as it whizzes past. The roar of Chicago can be deafening to the untrained ear. However, to me, they are the Philharmonic playing Beethoven. If one knows how to look and how to listen, they too can hear the music. It is an ongoing concert, and we are all invited. Chicago contains several layers of subcultures and environments, one stacked on top of the other. They are scattered into every corner of the city. The most prominent shifts in the atmosphere occur between dusk and dawn when the sun rises over the buildings and its beams pass over her landscape. One of my favorite neighborhoods to witness the beauty of Chicago's daylight hours is the South Loop. The brick buildings there almost seem to glow as the sun casts its rays on their sand-colored surface. Her windows become glimmering, faceted diamonds, enticing one to come inside. The parks are enchanting when the sun passes over the vibrant green foliage, glittering on the water of the bubbling fountains, illuminating the proud statues and concrete channels. These are not miracles that can be envisioned; they must be seen with the naked eye to be genuinely appreciated. Although the day holds majesty, her evening hours are full of untold tales. There is a fantastical display of pigments and an aura of secrecy. They seduce the artistic soul and fill the mind with the answers to the unspoken questions. At night, Chicago becomes the ultimate muse as she comes to life in a parade of lights and streaks of color. Cars paint the night as they speed through the darkened streets, taillights a blur. The sound of cultures melding together can be heard in the music pouring from the open nightclub doors. Everything reverberates with new energy. In the dark, away from the downtown bustle, that is where her buildings whisper their stories. There is a feeling of quiet contemplation and mystery. Around the shadowy base of her brick structures, one can sense history. Even in photos when her buildings have been captured in silent motion; her ability to inspire is not lost. Even a photo of her can give me hope when there is none and give me the feeling that all things are possible. From her towering architecture to her vibrant art scenes, there is a vast collection of things to stimulate the senses. Chicago is always changing and moving. Her kinetic energy and color palette are what inspire me most. No matter the distance, Chicago reaches out to inspire me once more.