So often does mind prefer thought and formulated ideas to utter silence.

Why?

In silence, all form is free to morph and warp.

In thought, form is constricted, shaped.

In silence, form is free to dissipate, to dissolve.

In thought, form has meaning, concept, continuity, purpose, relevance.

In silence, form simply is… Or is not.

There is no grand meaning – that would be an idea formulated in mind. There is no concept worthy of debate or deliberation. What is worthiness or conceptuality without thought, without mind?

There is no continuity in silence. No thought grappled or related to the next in concept and interconnectivity conceived in thought. No purpose, no meaning to attribute it. Just being. Seeming to be shifting and morphing and dying. No relevance – no relation – no continuity, no interrelated ideation. All just is there, or here, or wherever. Now.

Noise or no noise. Sound or no sound. Thought or no thought.

No possession. No drawn ownership. No adopted self.

All ideas just floating, not true form. Emptiness. Vastness. Limitless.

No endless clinging, so exhausting. No frenzy of me and mine, so invasive and hollow.

Simply…

Simply…

Ahh…

All to be sensed, carried in blood. All to be known, read in some book. All to be found, found by decaying bones. All to be seen, beheld by withered eyes.

No thing is enough.

Only silence is ever enough.

Even silence is too much…

Simply…

Simply…


Let it go, let it all go.

Nothing is yours to own.

No one is yours to know.

All you see is subject to nothing.

Nothing.

The space of before, beyond. Without, unencumbered. Light in dark. Dark in light.

Sound on deaf ears.

Landscapes to blind eyes.

Velvet to rough hands.

Let it go, let it all go.

You’re not you anyway. You were fooled. You missed it or forgot or something. That’s okay though. You are still very much loved. Forget again, you are loved still. Throw down the pen, storm away, you’re loved.

A love so infuriating to mind, it refuses to judge. Or perhaps simply is without judgement.

An echo so gentle, it caresses only feathers. All else is unaware of its presence. Yet, it is there. Always. Unedited.

Simply…

Simply…

To all ears, inaudible. To all souls, so loud.

The voice cries and whispers,

“Come home. Come now.”

09/02/16

 

 

Order Your Copy Of The Song Of Silence by Andey Fellowes, Now: https://andeyfellowes.wordpress.com/the-song-of-silence/

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