As I get off the subway, I hear a waiter scolding his co-worker. A young father tries to calm his screaming child, and a bus honks at a taxi driver who has parked in the wrong spot. I turn up the volume of my playlist and press my headphones more firmly to my ear. I frantically search for the volume control button in the pocket of my coat as I cross the road.

I look to my right and am blinded by a bright light. A car passes me with abrupt acceleration. Google Maps sends me through a large gate and then down a basement entrance. Inside the windows of the shop next to the stairs are countless golden statues, glowing crystals, and dream catchers.

When I arrive at the reception, I am greeted by a member of staff who introduces herself as Melanie (name changed). She shows me the wellness area, the relaxation room, and the changing rooms. She then leads me through a long corridor and unlocks a door at the end.

A huge bathtub in the middle of the room lights up in different colors. Melanie instructs me on the process of the float tank and leaves the room. I carefully step into the water and close the lid. Soft panpipe music plays for about ten minutes. Then the bright colors dim and suddenly: nothingness. There is absolute silence and darkness. My thoughts, on the other hand, become increasingly louder.

The principle of the “sensory deprivation tank”, also known as a “float tank”, is based on the research of neuroscientist John C. Lilly, who developed the first tank in 1954. Today, floating is said to have an almost healing effect. Total stimulation deprivation is offered as a wellness treatment in numerous spas and is said to help with chronic pain, anxiety disorders, depression, addictions and sleep disorders. However, scientific tests mainly point to the relaxing effect of floatation therapy, similar to meditation or yoga.

So now I’m lying in one of them. To be more precise: I’m floating. There is still no sign of a relaxing or even rehabilitating effect—on the contrary. The space around me seems disconcertingly large: I stretch out my arms and legs, but my fingers and toes can’t reach the walls of the bowl. After a few minutes, I start to lose my bearings, as well as where my head and feet are and whether I’m still in the same position as when I started.

I keep my eyes closed, but eventually I dare to open them and I am startled by the fact that I can see absolutely nothing. I try to feel the bottom of the shell beneath me with my hands; the space around me suddenly feels tighter and I try to calm myself down by touching the edge of the shell. I can’t imagine the person for whom this float experience is relaxing at this point of the experiment. Melanie told me that most of the clients are men who use the hour to cry.

I wonder how much time has already passed. What am I supposed to do for an hour now? I don’t really feel like crying. I spend a moment thinking about what I’m going to have for dinner tonight, whether I need to go shopping, when I last spoke to my aunt on the phone and who else has a birthday this month. What doctor’s appointments I still have to make and how I’m going to structure this text. I keep thinking like this until I run out of thoughts.

Finally, my thoughts slowly calm down. I had almost forgotten that I was lying in a huge, soundproofed salt bath when the music started playing again. This shapeless black hole, which seemed so mysterious and endless just a few minutes ago, is once again just a big bathtub that can play panpipe music. I get dressed, pick up my things and stand on the street in front of the entrance gate again. People in bars are talking and laughing, a couple on the side of the street are arguing and students are toasting with their beers. Although I was only in the float tank five minutes ago, I can hardly imagine finding the kind of quietness I’ve experienced there in this world.

After an hour in a dark bathtub, I understand why it is possible to be “afraid” of silence, because we never encounter it in our daily lives. One hour ago, I would not have been paid notice – neither to silence nor to noise.