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lifeLife silents our voices
Life goes on behind silence, long stretches of moments passing in our fingers like sand, but it is within this quiet that our voices make meaning in the void. Not always in words but in the trembling fingertips reaching toward some unseen thing, in the heaviness of unspoken sorrow, in the breath between love and longing.
The universe will be indifferent, as it ought to be — it is but a faint whisper against the great vaults of time, only a passing note in a song too great to be borne. And yet once again, we write. We write with laughter, with wounds, how the eyes meet in understanding across a room, even with voice, like melodies that enchant as one puts it in dread. The pages of our souls are filled with not just those things that can be declared in words but are forgotten footprints of meaning that cannot be revealed. Some scream out; others whisper- hardly audible sighs. Even pain, which leaves no voice at all, has its stamp on the texture of who we will finally become. Life is not waiting for us to be loud enough, strong enough, or sure enough. It is moving, aching, unfolding, and we are a part of it, writing ourselves into existence with every step, every touch, every silence that carries the weight of all we feel but cannot say.
Nobody’s Listening to anyone outside. It doesn’t have to listening because our existence is a mere whisper against the great expanses of…
