True voice of my deep heart, without which I lose touch with joy, existing without substance, without meaning, do not leave me forlorn, wandering the desert in mute resignation, aching within and without, nowhere at home. Speak to me, O voice of my heart. Speak in your wordless wholeness, in your broken language, and I’ll record in words what I hear in silence. Speak, O my heart, and I’ll write my way home.
Let the darkness of a solitary night unbind the chains and find the hidden pain in my deepest heart, the weeping son given all but that sole food his soul is starving for.
Silence without, silence within. The mind not dying to make itself up. The house quiet as an hourglass. The soft tap tapping of the rain. The mind not dying to make itself up A story of what is happening here. The soft tap tapping of the rain, The sound of the wind in the trees. A story of what is happening here Is not what is happening here. The sound of the wind in the trees Asking for nothing. Is not what is happening here A man sitting at his desk Asking for nothing? The rain stops, the wind dies down. A man sitting at his desk The house quiet as an hourglass. The rain stops, the wind dies down. Silence without, silence within.
My heart’s happiness is trapped in my chest like a red-breasted bird whose vocal cords are shot. His dumb fate blocks him from singing out the songs of lament locked inside his throat, while numbing memories of the unrepeatable songs of praise he once sang as a chirping little one mock him mercilessly. The bird’s fixed idea of how impossibly filled with grace he used to be imprisons him in the silver cages of yearning. His magnetized mind takes flight from the muted now to the musical back then, and he feels no desire to come down. He feels the fire and the magic have forsaken him, and he aches to hear aloud the latent notes Time has pushed down to some hidden crevice of his being. He has gone deaf to the ever-present, everlasting Silence, which asks without force to inhabit him from the inside. Lord of bird and beast, let there be purpose and will to this creature’s suffering. Let him still rise and glide through the skies; let him still dive-bomb the earth; let him still play the role of high-flying bird, tied down though he is to the flights of his powerful reveries, left pining and unheard in his severed world of silence.
I wake in the evenings in this season of my life, an hour or two after the sun has gone down. I sit at the desk at night, and I lie back down as the sun climbs up the sky. I wake in the supple arms of a darkness distinct from every other darkness that has come before it, so why should I, and how could I, stay the same, as if I am not subject to the same law that keeps the seasons changing? The law of invisible evidence tells me I too am distinct, but not separate. No space exists between my essence and the presence of night, for I rest inside the pages of night’s book. It is a good night to stay within these lines.