I have seen
The sunken mysteries of my own mind
spread out before me,
enveloping everything,
breathing sunlight from their ephemeral dew.

I have heard
the silent rumblings of a desire yet unborn
the faint, pitching melody of longing,
as it wakes

And I have felt,
The myriad images brush against my skin,
brush up against my eyes, still closed
and beat great rhythms into my
closed and stirring eyes.

Yes, I have known
The soft line which breathes within the
narrows of necessity
The wisdom which whispers through
the mouth of restless fantasy,

And the thought—which knows
no boundary, but which
flows and speaks out endlessly
as it illuminates

the dream.

An antenna dish, large and unwavering, sits in a valley of old-growth trees whose bark foretells the legacy of layering and unlayering, whose silent constructions shape and determine the confines and apparent boundary-points of the natural world. Long live the flow of boundless energies: that focal point of nature whose gift predates the workings of nature herself. You are that all-empowering Infinity, that point beyond which there are no further horizons, being, as you are, at the very center of things. Outwards and inwards, as energies we flow. The constructors and constructions of a world we call our own. Our musings are born of the same impulse that gave birth to ourselves.

An inkwell sits patiently, buoyant in an ocean of inarticulate possibility. Inexpressible sadness, inextricable joy—you are the twin musings of all creation. You are fingers, pointing at the moon.

There is a lingering humour, a taunting presence in the mundane scenery of sensory experience. The glamour and appeal of natural sounds, and—sadly, misguidedly—the sacredness of human utterances—are all too often robbed of their magic and immediacy by the bullet-train of ceaseless categorization which takes place, as though driven by an unassailable force of agency, in that all-pervasive engine-room of the mind.

Let me try to re-phrase this obscurity:

The sound that resonates through our ears and into our hearts and minds owes its existence to the atmosphere. Meaning: sound cannot exist in a vacuum, due to the fact that it depends on the ability of unseen particles to vibrate in waveform harmonies amongst themselves. Our atmosphere allows for the existence of these particles’ vibrations by distancing us ever so delicately from the mute blackness in which we are framed. Our language hinges on the borders of soundlessness; our meaning floats atop an ocean of inarticulate possibility.
We are ghosts within the machine, fragile emissaries of a cosmic imagination, whose silent searchings echo the poetry of soundless forms.
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{ What is emptiness but the home of possibility?
What is fullness but the offspring of a void?

Silence is the root of exposition
While expression is the heartbeat of the unseen and unheard }