Silence is its own sensation.

Silence is its own sensation.
It does what you wouldn’t think it would do.
It rushes hushed into your ears and stays there, a silent perpetual waterfall, a whirling cyclical sound as soft and static as cotton ball clouds in your ears.
The oscillations of a tower fan.
The breeze gently rustling the curtain before the openscreened window.
The clickwhirwhoosh of the ac kicking in.
Such soft susurrations filling the air void within your ears.
A silent friend, always there.
A mother’s whisper wishing the world away to silence to quiet a child’s worrying mind to sleep, to dream …


There is sound in silence.


You just have to listen for it.

There is a continuous miracle that you might not know about and it’s you.

Hey.

I’m going to tell you something.

You’re probably not going to believe it.

Maybe not right now, but you will.

If you want to.

Take a moment.

Pause.

Do you feel that?

Just a moment longer.

Listen.

Can you hear that?

That’s your heart beating.

That’s your lungs breathing.

Do you know what that means?

It means that you’re still alive.

You.

It means that you can make it to the next moment.

It means that you still have a chance.

And don’t you know what that means?

It means you can do anything.

Words Like Whirling Dervishes …

What do I do with these words that swirl around my head, night and day, and night and day?


Whirling dervishes spiraling in ecclesiastical ecstasies of euphoria, subjects and predicates, subordinate clauses creating expansions of thoughts, blossoming into petals of prose, linking daisy chains of randomness together to form some fractal fractured pattern using common commas along with their elitist Oxford cousins combining phrases that trail off on tangents winding their way like Thorin’s company of thirteen through the Misty Mountains, the wrinkles of my cerebrum and cerebellum, that sometimes somehow find their way there and back again threading the needle to make my point – even if you find me a prick.


But a pragmatic prick who suffers from grammatical gigantism stuffed into my overfed overfat cranium. This over large head blooms sentence stems so big within that they beggar imagination.


What I want is what you wish.

So full I really wish my head would explode,

unless …

unless …

you’d care to be kind, and with your delicate hands you could hold this head gently. You could cradle it carefully. And maybe that might make the words slow down, your cooling hands on my fevered head to slow this mad merry-go-round. To silence this lunatic syllabic laughter.


Wouldn’t it be wonderful?


If that were to work?


You say my words are too much for you.


They are too much for me too.