Now, more than ever, I am certain of the importance of silence in the understanding of mortality. Not during the thrushes of emotional chemicals from the amygdale in the brain to the body's flight or fight, nor during the passion that binds two souls in an ancient, instinctual effort to create life, are we reminded of the fragility of human clay. But, only in the moments of our solitude do the shadows of our existence creep behind our glassy eyes, and like mirrors we reflect inward to sense our imminent end. When our love is gone and we search our empty homes and beds, when the day's work is over and all that's left is what fills our heads; how like a tiny, blue robin's egg we feel! We are perched in a nest, afraid to emerge and afraid to fall.
The older I get the more I realize there's no amount of church, of food, of paper in the world to make me happy. So rather than invest in an expensive anything, I'd rather seek to surround myself with a work that is satisfying and people who care about me as much as I care about them. Rather than listen to a priest guessing at the content of my character or the context of my need, I want to dedicate myself to finding more solitude for rifling the atoms of my spirit so that I can fill them with electrons of love. I want everyone I touch to know that I love them by how my actions make them feel, rather than words, broken in capability and bound by the limits of language.
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