Listen
Not to the lions, but to the lambs.
And Listen most clearly to the silence. The immense sound within the void.
The conjunction between isolation and society–not nature and man–for that distinction comes down to vision–not reality.
Though, in traditional sanskrit, there is no word for spirituality–only ‘vision’
That distinction is as real as we perceive it.
I believe in all that has been proven to me, but even more so in all that has not, cannot, and will not.
Feeling the words on the page–because they, too, are now physical–and therefore, I’ve become dependent on them, watching myself put them into existence. The pen doesn't stand a chance against my mind, and lately I just haven’t had the patience to wait up for it. I suppose it’s the same way I must take notes in lecture–or scribble the feelings elicited from a speech, or playing perfectly practiced melodies–the very act of producing–the physicality of the sort–permits the processing. Without, it may never have existed to begin with.
If a tree falls in the middle of the forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
An expression I always found silly–of course it makes a sound. Though it repeated itself in my drive through the void–through the blizzard of nothingness extending beyond the 5 foot radius of visibility. The mechanic machine and the next wooden marker along the road to nowhere made up my world at that moment.. until the wind slowed, the sky cleared, and I suddenly then extended beyond the horizon.
The bird doesn’t know it is singing, just as the lily doesn’t know it is beautiful, and the tree doesn’t make a sound to be fucking heard. “I wish I was someone who could perform without an audience” - a scribble I found on the back of a to-do list from 2020. I’ve learned the essence of this concept. In stripping myself from what I do–and all others, for that matter–I’ve become comforted from the very question that frightened me the most. Who are you beyond what you do? I am everything beyond the sort, allowing all that I do–and even the words on this page–to be extensions of myself rather than part of myself. Which is why I no longer need to explain beyond what I share. I don’t mind if you don’t follow. Many things I’ve kept sacred even from the page.
Memory
I’ve come to realize I’ve put much too value on that abstract realm of human concern, that sets apart that disconnect between man and seed.
I hit my head on April 7th, and now it is May.
It no longer scares me the way it did on the 17th. I don’t remember things, but sensations. Rather than concepts.
And I’d found myself grasping to realizations, repeating them only to play catch-up 3 topics down the line. So I’ve decided to free myself from the pressure of memory. Physicality. Tangibility. To absorb words–that were never distinct from sensation, themselves, but only attempts to near them.
The same way sound has become a language for the unspoken. I suppose that’s where it has gained my immense appreciation.
I was so preoccupied by the noise within my head, with the responsibility of meeting expectations and owing explanations or at the very least expression
And became disillusioned by the process of production
That I had deprived myself of the beauty of just being
Of existing within the silence without feeling the responsibility to start
To carry the beat
For the first time, I feel deserving of owning right to the ensemble without the credit of my individual voice carrying the sound.