Every moment empty of your presence is a moment made sterile and fallow.
All things are dance, and those truths we poke at are the song of the piper. Never winded. The wind is his breath. All voices his voice. At any given time someone is thinking, and someone is speaking. Someone might laugh and someone might cry, and the breath with the beat of hearts goes on and on. Even the sun itself pulsates and it’s such a sweet music. Silence is the running theme. Sound exists only in silence, and the deafening thunder echoes eternally. Thunder of the silence. The still point. The zero point field. All sound is a variation of that one theme.
Everything makes sound, even the events that don’t happen. The prophet hears the whole symphony, but speaks only of a few instruments.
How come no one ever wonders what the sound was? The tree could have said, “Ouch!” It does say ‘ouch’, and nothing, and screams like a hellish lost soul, and laughs at the joy of release. All in the one incidence of falling.
Your thoughts are welcome. Be well friends.