Such a thirst, for silence.
Such a thirst, for not sharing.
For sitting on that hillside, wind blowing over the frozen lake, eyes tearing from cold.
Feeling joy of silence, wanting to deepen in it, to dive deeper into the silence until it alone lives on the hillside.
So tired of the voices of self, of humanity.
Wanting only to feel the lover of silence, the beloved, the one in which all noise appears and disappears.
Yet I return, again and again, to the personality.
To that which proclaims a self, which separates itself from the river of flowing.
On the silent hillside, recognizing a truth deeper than the surface sharings. Recognizing a truth which is almost bursting forth like a thousand cattail seeds ready to seed the earth. Yet I pull back. Again and again I pull back into that which is comfortable, recognizable, easy.
It gets harder every day to maintain the fiction of a self. Yet I quiver like that dried plant in the wind, afraid.
Afraid of what? —the wind howls, laughing.
Afraid of being nothing—I say, crying.
The wind blows relentlessly.
Slowly the dirt on the hillside erodes, even beneath white snow.
I do not know what tomorrow brings unless it’s a new wind, a new snow, a new tossing of coat and hat and mittens into frigid air and dancing naked, yes naked, into the next moment.