I don't know how to write about silence. In the pauses between this, that, and the other thing, I've caught glimpses of the possibility that the nothingness is something.
I have felt myself drawn inward, into the folds of my own heart, into the forgotten places, the unedited, unflinching realms. I have been quietly exploring and reassuring my own stories. Away from others, so close to myself.
I didn't see it coming. I couldn't have guessed that just around the corner of there and back again was this. So quiet.
How do I talk about silence?
There is a part of me that wants to tell the story of who I am right now, who I am becoming, who I am remembering. But it is fragile, and unsure, and unsteady. A newly born potentiality or perhaps something that has always resided in the fields of my own unrecognized longing.
I watch the movement of the moon and the stars, quietly journeying across the sky, to return again. Sometimes the light is clouded, sometimes it is bright enough to wake me from sleep. Still moving, still knowing.
Not asking why or how or what happens next.
Like love. The sinking into something unrecognizable, yet desired. So desired. A reunion of self, the grace of mystery.
Taking a deep breath before...something.
This silence is a gift.
I don't know what to say.
And that's okay.