“I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born.” — H. D. Thoreau
I dreamt silence is another language, and those who speak it read the current of emotions in people’s faces. Without words, they cannot describe, cannot explain, cannot label or characterize or color. Everything is itself. Each moment flees, dives into time’s stream, and—swept to some dim, imagined place—disappears.
Silence speakers have mostly now.
They do imagine, and wordless colors, shapes, textures, and scents roam their minds like giants. Memory hasn’t been revised for fewer dimensions but keeps its creation with it until time stretches details thin. Then the giants vanish. No book can hold memory because there are no books, only the rich, recalled oil of flowers, foods, and lovers seeping away.
Silence speakers lie by disguise. Truths they withhold lay just below the surface, a deeper current they keep others from seeing. They can mislead by showing nothing, and they can mislead deliberately, but they cannot make their listener think something false. Listeners believe what they see is true. They have only that choice.
In my dream, silence speakers radiate empathy. They read each other so closely they are each other, undifferentiated and whole. They can’t construct anything to divide them, no walls of words, no mansions of thought, and no contracts of abstractions. They can’t plan. They can’t build. They can’t preserve. They create no monuments to themselves but live like infants roaming in open time.
I woke with envy. I wonder if doubt is made of words. In the first rays of consciousness, I shared some space with the silence speakers and felt relief… at least, until the urge to write them down took hold.