This is a Reflection on Theory of the Film: Sound by Bela Balazs

It seems to me like the writer is attempting to convey the idea that silence is not simply a lack of sound, but an abundance of sound where there once was none. I can see their point, and I am especially fond of their description of silence and space where they speak of being able to hear things you wouldn't normally is what silence is. Being able to hear the faintest of sounds brings a good feeling of silence rather than a bad feeling that I get in an environment with a complete lack of sound. Silence is therefore a lack of sound in your immediate vicinity. The sound silence of film should be enhanced with picture and vice versa with the silence of a picture being enhanced by sound. The two go so well together in film, so not having a good quality of one or the other is detrimental.

This is a sound observation of CAB

It is mostly silent in the Cultural Arts Building this early in the morning. One does not expect to hear too much while everyone is in class, but there is always activity even if we can't initially hear it. In the initial silence, I hear the screaming bugs and buzzing of the outdoors from my seat in the lobby. The air conditioning provides a consistently dull hum in the background. In the distance, I hear a door open and then thud closed with a slam and the snap of the latch after. As people begin to populate the space, I hear a woman and a man converse about her sandwich, their voices faint as to not disturb the others in the room. My roommate pages through her play with a rhythmic, dull snap at each page turn. The elevator arrives across the hall with a ding and a whoosh of the doors opening. Student's footsteps populate that hallway with a barrage of hard claps, until they reach the carpeted floors where they all seem to drag across lightly with little sound but the airy, fuzzy friction of their shoes agains the carpet.

This is a sound observation of my bedroom

It is always quiet in my room until I focus really hard on the atmosphere around me. The two most obvious sounds that fill the room are the shrilly hum of the bugs outside and the dull, muted humming of the air conditioning. The AC cuts off with a click and a fading hum, and I am able to hear almost the whole building. I can hear the whirring of my roommate's sheets in the dryer, with the occasional clang of the loose screw we have yet to fix. My downstairs neighbor must like rap music, for I can hear the loud bass of the speakers from beneath my feet. The ringing of the bugs song fades in and out, and I hear a dog's sharp bark from outside my window. Later that night, the roar of the insects is slowly overtaken by the rhythmic clanging of the train making its nightly trip by my bedroom window. The grinding and slicing metal is a steady reminder of its presence, even as the sharp roar of the horn fades into the distance and the night. The train fades into a dull hum and the insects overtake the night once again as with their rhythmic, shrill song.