Well, of Silence

Sacred, Secret, Silent

The sound of silence travels not far. It dwells only momentarily inside. Move and you hear your bones creak. Breathe and you hear your passageways. And beaming quietly in light may well give pause to some passers by, indeed, but then they go on. And of my personal affect there is little. I am a molecule, like any of us, watching whatever. My thoughts are easily kept secret. Without this very missive my words are unpublished, unheard, unrecorded, silent. Whom do I reach?

"Who do you think you are?" was a great leveller when I was a child. Still is. And in my egotistic presumptions that perhaps my pronouncements meant something, were of some value, were having an effect, the dichotomy betwixt Doing and Being appeared breached. But then someone countenanced me. "Who do you think you are?" Almost simultaneously I came across the Arcturian quote, and I fell into silence. Falling is not pleasant; one questions stability all the way down. Arcturians are best researched.

No matter what we do we affect others. Yet dependent on each other, our impact is not necessarily commensurate with an other's awareness of ourselves. Some sow but small seeds; maturation may be decades ahead. And some yoke and conscript and manage you, such that your time becomes curtailed, your thoughts become conjoined with theirs, and your commensurate being and doing appears aligned. We are creatures of habit. The choice of habits is not easily altered.

Such seeds as my thoughts sew are my responsibility. In the end, they are but seeds.