The storm comes with the slightest of warnings; first comes the Whisper, caressing and lovely, then comes the Wind, cold and rough, and at last the Storm awakens. From one side the armies of Tranquility march and from the other, the Storm, chaotic and final; and just before they collide, a short moment of silence reigns between them, where they salute to each other, where Darkness hails Light and War greets Peace, that moment is the final War Cry and after that no other war cry is ever needed.
The wind rattles the bone with its cold swift blows and it is this wind, and not the storm, that lays ruin to all and everything for what is more destructive than silence, which is the swiftest and coldest of all? Only rain can calm a storm, but wind has no restraint. It is gusting, wafting, drifting, floating, screaming, bustling body of unstoppable force; it is ever blowing. There exists no other entity with a nature so persistent and vicious as the Wind, and perhaps viciousness is one name of the Wind.
Sometimes, when the world whispers it leaves a far deeper mark than when it shouts. Is it the soft caress of silence that lays ruin, or the callused hand of loudness? When the moans and groans of this universe and its denizens are heard, when the illusive fort of our dreams breaks, nothing remains except a vast void of emptiness. Where only silence reigns. When the morning breaks from its slumber, when the sun peeks from behind the ether veil, when the moon slips down to sleep and the dawn awakens with a song; there in that moment when the first speck of dust, hanging amidst air, descends slowly and swiftly awakens the first blade of grass, bending it as gently a drop of dew takes a leap and falls and falling, falling kisses the ground, what else dwells there other than silence?
Calm and placid is the motion of emotion; its every touch crafting from pure ether a sensation of being, a shape of existence. Even the very last ripple of it, as it lunges for some unseen hold, drifts calmly down the silent abyss of Death, never once leaving a mark to mark its presence. Gone as if it never existed. So silent…everything.
Everything leaves an echo as it creates a motion, from a heart to a soul to a body and eventually to the world. What echo leaves behind a stone when its crushed by the inevitability of life? What resounds when a leaf, so fragile and small, is detached from its mother’s embrace, only to face the harsh truth? Only a single echo enjoins all these little moments of balance; everything has an ending and so does silence.
What balance is there for these echoes, these little armadas that sail so obscurely in between our existence that we have no chance to know of their presence? Silence is the answer as once steel was the answer. All little truths hide underneath the guard of these ominous essences, but what does Truth teach us? What do all the hefty books of our forefathers and ancestors tell us? That Truth never hides.
The True Reason.
When a heart beats, it leaves an echo and that echo leaves yet another echo and so forth this deep chain continues, ever changing and ever-lasting. Every person who enters a life, every consciousness that entwines with another leaves an echo behind but who listens to the echoes? Everyone just hears the voice. The sound. The plain, simple, vibration. But the truth resides in echoes. The voice is just a cover. A cover to deflect your attention. It’s a magic trick. You never know when it ends. But you stand up anyway and clap and you do not know what you are clapping for. Because you never hear the echo. You never know the true reason.
To everything there is a balance, to everything there is a contradiction. This world is a paradox, to the True Reason there is always the False One and to a sound there is always silence. Paradox upon paradox upon paradox until all that is left is a convoluted idea that Nothing prevails, Nothing holds against the battering currents of Fate. To everything there is a counterpart, to war there is peace, to light there is shadow, to life there is death but there is no counterpart of Nothing for there is no such thing as Everything.
Author: The Weaver
You, my Reader, why do you read these words? What do you see in them? Every letter closes with a thought and no letter ends without a reply. My Reader, your reply will forever be awaited. In the meantime, like to appreciate us, follow to honor us, comment to encourage us, share to flatter us.
The Weaver (@theweavrs) July 16, 2016
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.