All of life seems to be tightly wrapped in a shrill din, incandescent voices, iridescent noises, speaking and hearing much more that we need to, a symphony of eternal discord.
Until you find the silence and learn to listen to it.
Not the kind of silence, Marcus, that you get when you’re alone, or can feel in the orange tissue of dawn or taste in the icy wind that brushed past a lone tulip…
Perhaps one in which everything dissolves into a kind of luminous clarity and thoughts flow in translucent channels, lucid and complete, a stream of poetry that needs no muse, no words.
What would we think about in such stillness?
a wing flap
then just blue sky