consciousness

*

Good writing has rhythm in it, a rhythm that reads like a song.

I read them aloud. It sounds like music humming from the white pages.

The words don’t struggle to have meaning. No adjectives, no transitions, no punctuations.

Nouns and verbs are enough–and that stirs my heart a little bit.

*

Someone talking about what is in the center of their lives.

Eat, read, rest, sleep.

Walk, run, draw, sing.

Just the pronoun changing, sometimes. Sometimes I, sometimes we.

When I read those, I am pulled up a bit. It is a soft murmur to themselves, that

That is enough.

When I hear that, I am straightened up a bit. I feel I can do anything, even those outside the enough.

*

Now I want to listen to silence. Not in silence, not at silence, but to. Silence never speaks aloud. I have to concentrate with all my heart to really hear: the dusts floating, the light shining, the heat spreading.

The first five minutes are the most difficult. I can’t stay still. Loud questions strike across—what if, all of this is meaningless?

But I wait. In silence. 

When loud questions are folded up, little, soft, and quiet questions float to the surface. I ask them.

do i feel alone?

what can fill the void? love? food? words?

do i keep going?

who am i to follow? envy? comfort? dare?

Silence doesn’t answer. The questions just float—like lily pads upon a pond. I float too.

I listen. There is sometimes better sounds than words.. the water flowing, the trees growing, the clouds moving. 

I know it’s not, but name them altogether as silence. When I’m filled enough, with what silence had told me, I return to speaking aloud.

I am reassured, knowing that I have a place to go. To come back. Somewhere to sit down, or lie down, for a while and stand up again.