It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. From time to time, I take solace in silence. And in this meditation, return to the source of all stories; silence. Silence is the place where all tales are birthed. In anticipation as the lips of the storyteller quiver, there is a silence that is pregnant with all the stories that have ever been told, and all the tales that will be told. This silence is a refuge for the mind. But a story must depart from silence in a timely fashion, much like man fleeing from the womb. For silence can puncture any story, and bleed it dry. Silence is both the beginning and end of a story. Thus a storyteller must be precise in the use of silence, careful not to allow the silence to consume his words, and to wrestle the story away from him.
My mind has been fixated on writing a story. A story of significance, of meaning. But this story evades me. Who will be the characters? Where will it be? Will it sell for good money, or will it be a timeless tale that will only be read by a few wandering eyes? Will it even have meaning, lest I endow it with words that no others can comprehend. It’s a strange conviction that I can’t seem to shake. Sadly, stories are like wine, and often time they take time to age, and some time later, perhaps another young mind will mull over my words like a chocolate in his mouth, rolling over each syllable over his tongue, savoring the sounds and ideas. But for this time, silence.
Silence is a beautiful, yet violent thing. Silence is poignant in appearance, yet tragic in application. But only with silence can one form the most vibrant life.